


At du ska liva o alli døy

by Squoxie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, All the good stuff for an adventure, Alternate explanation: Cedric tries to make friends with everyone, Angst, Fluff, He just did what he wanted and I wrote it, I had no clue what Cedric wanted at any point, M/M, Meandering, Sassy Cedric, Sort of a Plot, Sort of episodic story, That's literally all Cedric is doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squoxie/pseuds/Squoxie
Summary: Cedric thought that it was to be the end, only to wake again, world turned on its head, and a wound in his side. Healing comes in many forms - particularly, Cedric would like to note, through meeting new and old friends.A story in which Cedric survives, and goes off on a meandering quest to find something or other while coming across people he knows well, people he knows less, and people he has never met before.
Relationships: Cedric/?, Iorveth/Cedric (Past)
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My longest story (that is posted) yet! And for once, I'm actually being mainly nice to poor Cedric.   
> Title means: That you shall live and never die
> 
> Thanks to gridelinCarver for betareading <3

He wakes sluggishly, feeling heavy and weak. But that must be wrong, surely? He is not… supposed to wake. He remembers a strange light, a warmth… golden cat’s eyes filled with compassion. A farewell.

Is it to be different, then? He was so certain…

Cedric opens his eyes, an endeavour that feels impossibly difficult until he succeeds, at which point he is mostly just confused. He lies nestled where he remembers speaking with the witcher Geralt, stiff and aching. Weak. Very weak. His side, soaked in blood, aches the worst.

How…?

He pushes himself up, hissing at the abrupt pain flaring in his side. However it is that he is alive, he won’t be for very much longer, if he can’t do something about that wound. The question is whether there is any point. Dying was… it was fine. He was fine with it. After so many years, to move on, it seemed right.

No. If he is alive after all, there must be a reason.

He gets to his feet somehow. It makes stars spring across his vision, and makes him very aware of the way his head pounds. A headache, a hangover? Or a result of losing… possibly far too many litres of blood?

He lists to the side, and has to catch himself with a quick step, moving slowly over to lean on a tree. To get to Lobinden in this state… the word ‘insurmountable’ comes to mind. But he needs help, and he needs to know what has become of the situation. From the light, it is early morning, but that means little. For all he knows, he might have lain there for days.

One foot in front of the other. That’s all he can do. One foot in front of the other, repeat, continue. It goes slowly, but he is getting somewhere.

He wonders what has happened. Has Geralt gone to Aedirn? Has Iorveth and his commando? What of the Blue Stripes? His head is silent, strangely so. He knows nothing.

Movement catches his attention, and he pauses, leans wearily against a tree. If it is a monster, or even just a predator, he’s dead. Even a nekker could end him as weak as he is now.

It is not a monster.

“Cedric…?” breathes a familiar voice, and Seherim emerges from the trees. “I thought—we thought you were dead.”

“As did I,” Cedric agrees, slumping into the tree he is leaning on. “What… what do you mean ‘we’, where- why are you out here? You are not hunting,” he observes. The elf is carrying his bow, but he appears far closer to hunted than hunting. That’s… concerning.

“No, I—hold on, let me help you. There is no worth in going to Lobinden, it is dangerous, but I and some of the others made camp where the Scoia’tael rested before leaving,” Seherim explains. He is quick but gentle as he takes Cedric’s arm over his shoulder, and Cedric leans into his support with relief even as his head spins with confusion and dread.

“Dangerous? What has happened?” he asks.

“Riots, a pogrom,” Seherim answers sadly. “So many dead… the Scoia’tael attacked and stole off with the barge, and Loredo is livid. That Roche and his men had to flee, I think. As did most of us. Some went off to seek their fortune elsewhere, a few of us remained out here, in the forest. Though… I don’t know how long we can keep up with it. Once the winter comes…”

Cedric closes his eyes briefly, pained. When will all the senseless violence end?

“I am glad you are alive, Cedric,” Seherim murmurs.

“The sentiment is appreciated and reciprocated,” Cedric replies.

It is, very luckily, not too far to the camp Seherim has set up. Upon their arrival, there are cautious faces peering out from trees and tents, then filled with surprise, and for some, relief. Five elves and three dwarves, not counting Seherim. What of the rest, living in Lobinden? Are they still there? Are they dead? The dh’oine, he supposes, might still stay. Surely Chorab will take care of them, for all that he might not have been willing to stick his neck out for non-humans.

“It’s Cedric!” Ailís says, hurrying forward to help support him. “Seherim, where did you find him?”

“Wandering,” Seherim answers. “He’s badly hurt. Do we have anything left of the supplies Anezka gave us?”

“Aye, we do!” one of the dwarves declares. Aonghas, Cedric recalls his name to be. “He needs sewing up, I can do that. Not that different sewing guts and shirts.”

“You need to clean the wound first, or it could get infected,” Hefin protests. “Cedric is as white as a ghost as it is.”

Cedric gives a soft laugh, and the entire world tilts before his eyes and goes black.

~

He wakes again, but this time, he feels almost clear of mind. His side aches, but differently now, and he is lying on a low cot, wrapped in a blanket. He seems to be wearing only his breeches, but he doesn’t mind much, pushing himself up carefully. The blanket falls to his lap, and he shoves it a bit further to get a proper look at his side.

It… looks both good and bad. The stitches are neat, unsurprising if it is Aonghas the seamster who did them, but the flesh around them is swollen and mildly discoloured. Not quite an infection, he thinks, but not far from one, either. From the placement of the wound, though, it is astonishing that he isn’t dead. Even just half an inch further in, and surely his guts would’ve ruptured.

Prodding carefully at the wound turns out to be a bad idea, and he sucks air through his teeth, blinking rapidly to quell the way his eyes tear up. Alright. Not doing that again.

He looks to the door of the tent, glances at his side, and then sighs. Climbing to his feet is difficult and painful, but needs must, and so he tries his best not to twist his side too badly. He still needs a pause once he’s up, but that’s fine. One step at a time.

His feet sink into the soft moss as he walks carefully to the opening in the tent, tickling the soles and making him smile. Upon exiting the tent, too, he feels lighter, freer. There is a comfortable warmth, enough that he is fine with being shirtless, and sun speckles the ground from where it flows between rustling leaves. A fine day.

“Ah, up, are you? ‘Bout time!”

Cedric snorts softly, giving Aonghas a slanted look. “With such words, you make me fear I have slept for a hundred years. I presume this is your handiwork. Very neat,” he comments, gesturing to the stitches. Aonghas grins, his curly black beard moving with the expression. He’d look quite intimidating, if not for the fine, multi-coloured ribbons braided through some of his hair and beard both. He can fight, Cedric knows, but he much prefers not to, which is rather a familiar way of thinking.

“Aye, stitched you up, I did that. ‘Bout time, too, or you’d be a dead elf,” Aonghas replies. “Be a shame, that. Them others aren’t much for drinking, can’t hold their weight at all.”

Cedric smiles wryly. “Would that be because I, as opposed to them, am constantly drunk?” he says. “Thank you, Aonghas. Where are your fellows at?”

Aonghas waves his hand, sits down on a tree stump. “Martin is trying to set some traps, and Rhys is off with that brat Seherim, doing who knows what. If you’re wanting to talk to some of your pointy-eared friends, I’m thinking Hefin and Ailís are picking berries, and I heard mention that Talfryn went to hunt. Don’t know ‘bout them others, they don’t like talking much. Hardly knew the grumpy one with the short-cropped hair was called Twm until Ailís mentioned it here the other day. Cute lass, that. Don’t think I know the name of the last one, come to think on it.”

“Hmm. That would be Wynn. They’re a bit shy,” Cedric smiles.

“Oh,  _ they _ , is it? Got to correct myself on that then, eh?” Aonghas muses. Cedric inclines his head, and that’s that.

There is some giggling from the trees, and Hefin and Ailís emerge, seeming both to be in a good mood, a woven basket hanging from the former’s arm. Upon seeing him, they both smile widely, and Ailís comes over on quick feet, more dancing than anything.

“Ceádmil, Cedric! It is good to see you up,” she declares. “Why, you’ve been out for near three days!”

Well, not a hundred years, but certainly long enough.

“Ceádmil, Ailís, Hefin. There is much healing to be found in rest, and so it seems I needed it,” he points out easily. “Know you where Twm and Wynn are?”

Ailís tilts her head a bit, and glances back at Hefin, who moves over with a somewhat calmer grace. “Twm is shadowing Seherim and Rhys for some reason. Wanting to learn, I guess. Wynn is off east, making flutes. They insist it must be perfect, and so they keep making more,” he offers. Wynn often copes like that, Cedric knows, and though it concerns him a bit, he is not inclined to meddle. People cope differently, and it’s not as if his own way is in any way good.

…Which makes him feel abruptly thirsty, and not for water. He keeps back a grimace.

“But you shouldn’t be standing around, Cedric! You should sit down, and we can find some food and water for you,” Ailís offers.

Cedric smiles wryly. “Once I’ve emptied my bladder. Thank you, my friends, I appreciate it.”

Ailís beams, Hefin’s smile smaller but no less warm. Aonghas, unsurprisingly, gives a bellowing laugh. They have fled Lobinden, have fled fear and pain, and can still find joy. It makes Cedric so very glad.

~

Not everything is sunshine and daisies. Cedric expected as much, knows all too well the folly of believing all is well, but he still feels an irrational anger, a deep-seated yearning for alcohol to dull his mind, the visions. They have yet to bother him too much, only small flickers before his eyes, ideas of things he does not know yet knows too well, but he fears it will get worse again.

He knows, too, that even if the visions were gone, as blissful as such a thing would be, it wouldn’t change his thirst for vodka. He doesn’t even think it tastes good. He is just so terribly used to it, to being drunk, he just wants to return to that dulled state of being.

There  _ is  _ alcohol in their little camp. He knows there is. But absolutely everyone has banded together in keeping it away from him, even shy Wynn. In fact, of everyone,  _ they  _ were the one to shout at him about it. The surprise of it, as well as the wish not to hurt them, kept him from shouting back. But still, it irritates him, makes him jittery and restless.

Regardless, he has things to do. Handiwork, small things that don’t inhibit the slow, slow healing of his side. He makes snares and traps for Martin and Seherim, helps Aonghas with upkeep and sewing, and helps Wynn test out their flutes, suggesting various ways of tuning them to get the result they want. He helps making food, given that it is not too heavy work, and he regales everyone with tales, sometimes of the past, sometimes fictional. Sometimes about himself when he was young.

Twm likes his tales a lot. He presents a grumpy front, and is more wont to glare at the dwarves than anything, but he listens raptly, and often takes to sidling up to Cedric later, with questions of various nature. Cedric answers them to the best of his ability, though some, he does not answer at all. Some questions are simply better left unanswered.

Seherim is really the ‘leader’ of this little group, for all that he claims otherwise, but Cedric observes him and knows it is so. It suits the elf. Distracts him from the worry he has held for Moril for so long, allows him to turn his compassion to the elves and dwarves in need of it. They weather the uncertainty well, but in the end, it is clear that it wears on them all. Seherim is always there with a listening ear, words of encouragement, or a humorous anecdote. The dwarves have taken to calling him “captain” as a playful title, citing the eyepatch makes him look like a pirate. Despite splutters and flushed cheeks, Cedric muses fondly on the fact that he is very certain Seherim secretly likes it.

They don’t really talk about the future. There is concern for the winter, gathering of food while it is still plentiful, but there is a unanimous agreement to not talk about the future further than that. Seherim has taken a few trips to scout about Flotsam and Lobinden, and brings no good news at all, and they remain in the forest, where the dh’oine aren’t likely to tread.

Cedric likes them all, enjoys their company, but he knows one thing with particular certainty, fuelled by the flickering images of his mind. Once he is healed, he will be moving on.

It is… almost exciting. He has no goal, nothing to reach for, but neither does he have any limits. He can do what he wants, go wherever his feet might lead him.

He thinks he shall simply wander. Perhaps seek out specific places and people if they catch his curiosity, but otherwise, why set a specific route, a specific target? Fanciful and foolish, perhaps, but somehow he believes it will be easier like that. Unrest comes regardless, and so he shall simply have to mind where he goes, and refrain from getting involved this time.

Well. That’s easier said than done. He doesn’t always have the heart to say no to things. But he can try.

~

Two months, it takes him to heal. Longer than he is entirely comfortable with, but likely because he is old and hasn’t exactly been kind to his own health by drinking so much. Not that he has had any alcohol to drink these last two months. He suspects the wound will be tender of a while more, too, but he is restless. For his friends, he doesn’t fear. Seherim will lead them well enough, and they have learnt well how to take care of one another.

He slips away in the night. He doesn’t feel like making a big spectacle out of leaving, and everyone is aware he has intended to, so they won’t be surprised.

It’s Cedric who is surprised, rather, to find Wynn sitting in a tree on his way. But maybe he shouldn’t be.

“Good evening, my friend,” he smiles.

“The others won’t like that you left like some slinking cat in the night,” Wynn replies, though they are smiling slightly. “But maybe you are a bit of a cat. Affectionate and playful, but prickly too. Want to decide for yourself.”

Cedric hums, scratching his cheek. “Maybe I am. What of you, then? Quiet like a mouse, you are—but far braver than one.”

Wynn laughs, smile widening. “Maybe I am a hare? Quiet, quiet—but startle me and off I will spring, in such a speed you’ll never catch me.”

Cedric chuckles. He is, truth be told, very fond of Wynn. They are young—the youngest of the elves here. Not a child, but not far from it either.

“A hare and a cat, then. What do you need, Wynn?”

Wynn shakes their head, swinging their legs merrily where they sit. “Not something I need. Just want. Bring this with you?” they ask, holding out a flute. It’s carved with flowers and vines upon it, and he recognises it as the flute Wynn has been the most satisfied with.

“Truly? Would you not rather keep it?” he wonders.

“No. I’ll always remember you, as I remember my parents, but I want you to remember me, too,” Wynn replies. Cedric blinks rapidly, touched. He nods.

“Then I will keep it, and think of you every time I play it.”

Wynn grins, their grey eyes sparkling. “Good,” they say, throwing it to him. “I will tell the others you left, in the morning. Otherwise, Ailís will come to yell at you, I think.”

Cedric grins too, catching the flute and slipping it into his satchel. “So she would. Take care of yourself and the others, Wynn. Make sure Seherim remembers to take a break every now and then, hm?”

Wynn nods in agreement. “I will. Va faill, Cedric. I’ll see you again.”

“Va faill, Wynn. I will await the moment,” Cedric says warmly.

Wynn nods again, and with a swift twirl of movement, they’re on their feet and bounding over into another tree, quite like a squirrel. He hopes bright young Wynn refrains from being pulled into Scoia’tael matters. For now, it isn’t a concern.

With a soft, content smile, he moves onward. It is time to see what the world has in store for him.


	2. Chapter 2

His feet bring him east, to start with. That, Cedric suspects, is because it is the direction his heart pulls him to. Away from people, he has heard nothing of what happened with the conflict in the Pontar valley, and he is curious. What has happened with Iorveth? Did Geralt regain his memory? What of the dragon he has Seen? To crumbling towers he will not go, but Vergen, he thinks, he can visit.

Being alone is different. It is nothing new to him, he has spent years wandering alone, but he has been surrounded by other people these latest years, and it is a change. There is no one to bother by singing and speaking his thoughts out loud, but there is also no one to turn to for company.

The most beautiful part of travelling alone is undoubtedly the nature. Cedric has always been particularly fond of the forests, of the experiences offered by simply being a part of the life within them. Sometimes they are nice to share, but there is a certain magic to sharing it with only oneself. Of course, he has always been a tad strange, preferring solitude and forest life to anything else, so that may just be him.

The leaves are mostly brown on the trees now, soon to fall. Many already have, making for crisp sounds under his feet. Not particularly convenient for moving unheard, but as it is, he travels through the deeper forests rather than near roads regardless. If someone is around to hear him, it is unlikely to be armed dh’oine.

He mostly keeps to mushrooms, berries, and roots, as he travels. Some provisions he brought, as well. But hunting would slow him, and he simply doesn’t feel like it. What he has is plenty enough. Rest he finds wherever. In a tree, in a cosy pile of leaves, in a hollowed trunk. Options are plenty.

Eventually, he reaches the dwarven town of Vergen. He meanders towards it without any particular hurry, curious, but cautious. It looks strong, sounds lively, but images flicker before his eyes, makes him uncertain of what he’s actually seeing.

“Another one? I swear, it’s one elf every day, isn’t it? Soon there’ll be more elves than dwarves in town!”

Cedric raises his eyebrows, eyeing the speaker. A guard. Not vehement in his words, more long-suffering, but still clearly somewhat resentful. It would seem the Scoia’tael have settled here, then.

“Hm, should I turn around and leave, good sir dwarf? I have little intention of staying for long,” he says mildly.

“Eh, don’t mind him,” the other guard says, scratching his beard. “He lost a bet with one of them squirrels the other day. You got business in Vergen, then, or just another lost elf?”

Cedric snorts. “I suppose of those, ‘lost’ is rather the correct option. Is Iorveth here, do you know?”

The guard nods. “Pro’lly around the castle or the square, this time of day. Don’t cause trouble, you hear? Get you kicked out right quick, that,” he warns. The other one simply huffs and folds his arms.

“No trouble, you have my word,” Cedric responds. He certainly has no intention to cause trouble, in any case. Whether other people cause trouble, who knows?

The guard waves him in past the intimidating gates, and so he goes. Sauntering, more than anything, perusing the architecture as he walks, observing the people. Dwarves, dh’oine and elves, all together. There is tension, but… not like there was in Flotsam. In Lobinden there was less of it, but not as little as there is here. That’s… it’s good, that this seems to have ended well, for now.

He doesn’t really like all the stone, he finds. It makes him feel closed in, trapped, with nowhere to go, nowhere to flee. Not that he should have reason to flee, but…

“Hello there, you’re looking a bit lost. Need some help?” a firm but kind voice says, and he pauses, turns to find a blonde woman with blue eyes. She’s wearing some armour, he sees, but more importantly, he recognises her, for all that he has never met her.

“So much power in such a small body…” he murmurs. Saskia the so-called Dragonslayer blinks at him, eyes narrowing.

“Who are you?” she asks. “You are not of Iorveth’s Scoia’tael. But nor do I think you a simple wandering elf.”

Cedric hums. “Whether you think I am not so hardly matters when it is what I am,” he replies. “Ceádmil, Saskia—or is it perhaps your Majesty I should call you by? I am Cedric.”

Saskia frowns slightly. “Saskia is fine. Cedric… you are… Iorveth’s lover? I think he mentioned that, once. It’s a while ago now.”

Cedric smiles sadly. That must be quite a while indeed.

“I was, once. For many, many years. But I made choices he did not agree with, and so our paths were split, no longer aligned, and he went on to fight, and I went on to… well. Refrain from fighting. Such bloodshed…” he drifts off, staring with no focus at a loose twist of blonde hair. So much blood. Hard choices made, but made they were.

Is there really any point in finding Iorveth? For what purpose? To be told to leave? Well, it would be fair enough, he supposes.

Saskia clears her throat, and when he refocuses, her eyes are kind. “Come, Cedric. I happen to know where Iorveth is, and parted or not, I think he would appreciate seeing you.”

Well, he can’t really deny a queen, can he? Especially not when she is, in fact, a dragon.

“As you say,” he agrees.

She gives him a pondering, amused look, and waves him along as she turns. He follows. It’s clear at once that she knows the place, is comfortable within the winding labyrinth of a road, between the buildings that are more mountain than anything else. She walks with comfortable confidence, shoulders back and head held high. It suits her, he thinks.

“You seem to be a thoughtful elf, Cedric,” she comments. “Care to say what’s on your mind?”

He chuckles softly. “Little of import. I may think a lot, but it does not necessarily mean there is value in my thoughts. Indeed, I have tricked myself more than once by thinking myself into knots. Rather a bad habit of mine.”

Saskia raises an eyebrow, but nods. “There is a time for thinking, and a time for action,” she muses. It is, in and of itself, a statement he agrees with. Even if it hardly ended well, this last time he tried to go for ‘action’.

Around another corner, and the road widens out into a square. A marketplace, he recognises, filled with people hawking their wares. Dwarves, dh’oine, elves. How fascinating. They all bow their heads to Saskia, respectful, some even a bit wary, before they go back to yelling and offering all sorts of prices for all sorts of things. Marketplaces give Cedric a headache.

“Ah, there he is.”

Cedric looks up, and indeed, there Iorveth is. Sitting atop a building, legs hanging freely, arms leaned on those again. He looks as Cedric remembers him, but… calmer, perhaps. A bit more content. A weight he did not realise he held falls off his shoulders. Iorveth is fine. Perhaps better, even.

“Iorveth!” Saskia calls, and Cedric pauses. Well then. Will Iorveth chase him away at once, or will he allow a few words?

Iorveth looks over, perking up at Saskia’s voice, before he stiffens. Cedric smiles wanly, tilting his head a bit as he watches Iorveth slip down to land smoothly on the ground, entirely ignoring a startled dwarf who makes to yell only until he realises who it is he wants to yell at, and quickly moving away.

“Cedric?” Iorveth says, breathes, his eye wide and disbelieving, his voice near trembling. “Gwynbleidd said… there was no time to check… Gwynbleidd said you were  _ dead _ .”

Cedric winces. “Ah. Yes, I… I thought as much myself. I awoke… later. Seherim found me and gave me aid, and I stayed with him and some of the other residents of Lobinden for some time,” he explains.

Iorveth releases a shuddering breath. “Come. Let us talk in my… home. Saskia, I—”

“I understand. Go talk,” Saskia interjects kindly. “It was nice to meet you, Cedric. I hope you’ll stay for a bit.”

Cedric inclines his head, not entirely certain what to say. Words seem difficult, suddenly. Stuck in his throat, caught beneath a layer of emotion so thick it feels as if there is no space for it in his body, emerging as tears welling up in his eyes. Always with the crying, him.

Iorveth turns on his foot, a familiar motion. Cedric follows, as he always has.

Iorveth doesn’t speak, as he walks, nor does Cedric expect him to. The tension in his shoulders speaks for itself. But so does the way he easily moves between the buildings, between the people. He is not entirely comfortable around them, but the Iorveth Cedric remembers would’ve avoided them all entirely. That he does not, it’s good to see. It gives him hope. Hope for Iorveth’s sake. For them all.

The house Iorveth leads him to is small and solid. Not somewhere Cedric would ever be comfortable, but Iorveth seems content with it, movement easy as he opens the door and bids Cedric inside. There isn’t much there, yet. A bit of furniture, more of Iorveth’s equipment. His bow hangs neatly on the wall, string loose, and his quiver is empty of arrows, the lot of them spread out over the table—for maintenance, Cedric presumes. And that too tells of Iorveth’s comfort, that he is willing to leave them out like so and wander the city without them.

“…Why are you here?” Iorveth asks, closing the door. His voice is even now, almost clinically so, but Cedric can see the turmoil in his eye still. The urge to step forward, to take his beautiful face between Cedric’s calloused hands, to lean forward and gently, so gently, kiss him, it’s so strong it chokes his breath from him. But he no longer has that right.

“I wished to know what became of the mists, of the dragon. Of you,” he answers truthfully.

Iorveth’s lips twist, and he looks away. “Don’t you know everything before it happens, content to ignore it and drink your days away?” he snaps. Unkind, but not untrue. Cedric can admit to that much.

“I don’t know everything; you are aware of that. What I See, what I Know, it is incomplete, disjointed. Confusing, to say the least,” he shakes his head, before smiling with some bitterness. “As to being drunk, Seherim and friends hid all the alcohol from me. I can’t say I’m happy about it, but perhaps it is for the better.”

Iorveth looks back, surprised. “You  _ are  _ sober then… I wondered. Seemed so unlikely. Credit to Seherim. And yet, I know you, and I know him. If you told him to refrain, to let you drink, he would fold like a wet paper. He respects you too much.”

Cedric snorts. “I’m perfectly  _ aware _ my addiction is unhealthy, Iorveth. But I am trying to undo it. For now. And I’ll thank you not to insult Seherim like that either—respect me he might, for some reason or other, but he leads well, and he knows when to be strict and when to be soft.”

A muscle in Iorveth’s jaw jumps, and he nods shortly. “Squass’me, my hostility is… uncalled for,” he admits grudgingly. “I am glad to see you, Cedric, whole and sober. We won the battle, despite resistance. We won freedom. A queen. This might become our home truly.”

Cedric smiles softly. “That is good to hear. I am very happy for you. For the commando as well, all those who have needed a home. Or, at least, a place to settle down for a moment and not have to fear the people around,” he muses.

“…It could be a home for you too, if you want it,” Iorveth says. There’s something halfway hopeful to his tone, and Cedric’s smile saddens.

“No,” he answers. “I thank you for the invitation, but I would not be comfortable here. The walls press in on me, choke me. No, I must… wander, I think. I have been still for too long. There is something… somewhere…”

Iorveth eyes him for a long moment, before a smile that is half a grimace twists his mouth, and he steps forward, arms folding tightly around Cedric. The embrace is surprising, but oh so very welcomed, and Cedric swallows, closing his eyes and revelling in it. Revelling in the warmth, the acceptance. Truly, he feared he would never again have it from Iorveth. Not after the way they parted.

“Our time is over, isn’t it?” Iorveth murmurs.

“I think that is how it must be, now,” Cedric replies tenderly. “It does not make me love you any less. Wherever I may wander off to, know that you are always in my heart, Iorveth.”

“So will you be part of mine,” Iorveth says. He steps back. “But—stay a few days in Vergen. Until I forget I only miss your dry remarks until they’re pointed my way.”

Cedric laughs. That’s one way to put it, certainly. “If you wish. I am in no hurry. I’ll admit I feared you were still angry with me, but I am relieved to find it isn’t so much the case after all.”

Iorveth shakes his head, lips twitching upward. “I’m not… happy, with your choices. But not angry anymore, no. I’m tired. But I think… there’s someone else who will be glad to see you alive,” he comments.

“Someone else…?” Cedric wonders. Who could it be?

Iorveth inclines his head, gesturing for Cedric to follow, up the stairs of his little home. He feels almost hesitant, but as he moves up the stairs, into the room up there, he is hit with shock, and then an incredible relief. Curled up on the bed, groggily waking at Iorveth’s soft call of his name, is a very familiar elf. One Cedric had feared dead.

“Ciaran,” he says softly.

Ciaran’s eyes spring open fully, and he pushes himself up, jaw slack. “C-Cedric? You’re alive,” he breathes.

“So I am,” Cedric agrees. “So are you. How that relieves me to know, my dear.”

It takes Ciaran naught but a moment to fling himself at Cedric, who quickly shifts to catch him in an embrace. The force of it makes him wince, his side twinging, but he refuses to let go, tucking the younger elf close. He’s thinner. Frailer, almost. But still strong, in the way he clutches at Cedric, nestling his face in a shoulder.

“I’ve  _ missed  _ you,” Ciaran says, his voice breaking. “And then you were  _ dead _ .”

“Shh,” Cedric soothes, gently carding his fingers through soft strands of hair. “I’m not dead yet, and I missed you too, little darling.”

Ciaran makes a soft, plaintive noise, tightening his arms around Cedric. “Don’t say it like that. ‘Yet’, as if—”

“Shh,” Cedric repeats. “I am old, you know this. But for now, I am here. I will remain in Vergen for some days before I go wherever my feet may take me. I hope that you’ll deign to spend some of that time with me,” he murmurs.

“Why must you leave?” Ciaran demands, pulling back just enough to glare at him. It makes the shadows under his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks, more prominent. “Stay. With Iorveth. With me. The three of us—we can figure it out. Together. Can’t we?”

“Cedric has always been one to wander, Ciaran,” Iorveth interjects, leaning against the wall with a tender gaze and a crooked, half-hearted smile in their direction. “Best let him. But we have him for some days, so make the most of that, and then we can simply hope his feet bring him back here.”

Cedric smiles softly, brushing a strand of hair away from Ciaran’s forehead. “Perhaps they will. Don’t be sad, dearest. What will be, will be. What has been, has been. Times change, and people change. But know that I care deeply for you.”

Ciaran sniffs, moving closer again, but gentler this time. “…Don’t think calling me endearments makes me any less unhappy that you’ll be leaving again,” he mumbles. Cedric hums softly, kissing the top of his head.

“I know.”

He can already feel he will not stay for long, but the discovery that Iorveth is no longer angry with him, that Ciaran is alive and on the way to recovery, it settles something in him. For now, however, he will remain, and revel in freely given affection.

~

Ciaran has deep trauma, to no surprise whatsoever. It makes Cedric so very sad. But at the same time, it becomes evident quickly that Iorveth has moved past the trepidation he once had in getting too close to Ciaran, and he takes care of the younger elf, soothing his fears and encouraging his recovery. Cedric wishes to help, and he does, but only at surface level. He can offer his ears, he can offer his affection and care, but he does not share the trauma Iorveth and Ciaran do.

For the better, he supposes. He has his own trauma. As do most everyone, it feels like. Would that the world was more peaceful, that it needn’t be like this.

Saskia, it turns out, is also an interesting character. There’s a reciprocal respect between her and Iorveth, and the fierce friendship they hide beneath a veneer of respect and politeness is strong enough that Cedric suspects more than a few would wonder about romantic entanglements. Quite silly, in his opinion. There are so many ways to love, and it matters not at all. Is it not better to love than to comment and speculate about others?

“Ha! Pay up,” Saskia says, clearly winning at the dice game she and Iorveth are playing. Grumbling, Iorveth shoves a couple of coins over the table. It is curious but welcome that Saskia is willing to spend time among her people, Cedric thinks. Not too common for a ruler, but then, she isn’t dh’oine. And most of the people in the tavern are dwarves, with a few elves.

“Again!” Iorveth demands, unwilling to lose as ever. The game seems based on chance though, so Cedric doesn’t see the logic of that. Saskia laughs and nods in agreement, and so they play again. A gesture to the barkeep, and she is given a flagon of something or other, fairly chugging it down. What alcohol tolerance does a dragon in dh’oine form hold anyway? The sight of it reminds him of drinking contests with the dwarves in Flotsam and Lobinden.

Damn, it makes him so  _ thirsty _ , so ridiculously parched, he has to clench his jaw and close his eyes, force himself to remain where he is.

“Cedric?” Ciaran murmurs. “I feel like stretching my legs, but I’d rather not go alone. Come with me?”

He nods, giving a tight smile and opening his eyes, and Ciaran smiles at him, before turning briefly to Iorveth.

“Cedric and I will take a walk—for all that it’s fun to watch you lose all your money, I need to move a bit.”

Iorveth glances at him, then at Cedric, and Cedric can tell that Iorveth realises as much as he does that Ciaran isn’t wanting a walk simply to walk—he merely noticed Cedric’s distress, and doesn’t want to draw attention to it.

“I’m hardly going to lose  _ all  _ of it,” Iorveth says. “But enjoy your walk. If you go by the marketplace, I think I saw they have some apples—I know you’re both fond of those.”

Ciaran nods, perking up, and Cedric inclines his head, following Ciaran out of the tavern. It helps. The air outside whisks away some of the terrible craving, and Ciaran taking his hand helps all the more.

“…Better?” Ciaran asks, almost shyly. Cedric smiles warmly at him, shifting his jaw a bit to relax it.

“Much. Thank you, Ciaran,” he replies. “Shall we see if they indeed have some apples?”

Ciaran nods in agreement, a small smile lighting up his face. He’s… careful now, in a way he wasn’t before. As if he isn’t entirely sure of himself anymore. A terrible shame, but Cedric has faith in his recovery. Ciaran may be young, but he is strong. Bent, but not broken.

There are indeed apples in the marketplace. Sweet, red ones, and they buy a couple, climbing up on a building to sit and share them, watching the life going on beneath them. A dwarf yells at them for climbing buildings, indignant, and storms off in a huff when Ciaran calls back that he should climb up if he wants to stop them. It’s amusing, reminiscent of better times.

“I really wish you would stay,” Ciaran admits, leaning into his side. “I’ve missed you so much. Iorveth did too, even if he won’t admit it.”

Cedric smiles, brushing a hand through Ciaran’s soft locks. “I know, my dear. I’ve missed you both, as well. But it is as it is. You will find, Ciaran, that sometimes letting go is the right choice. And for me, I would be unhappy here. Perhaps not at once, but eventually,” he murmurs. “Something draws me to wander, there is something I… perhaps something I am seeking? Rarely do I know.”

Ciaran makes a grumbling noise at the back of his throat. “Stop pretending to be wise, you’re not fooling me. You’re silly, is what you are,” he says. He’s biting back a smile though, and Cedric laughs.

“I probably am,” he agrees. “But so are you, little darling. Eminently silly indeed.”

Ciaran sticks his tongue out, and leans further into him. Cedric doesn’t mind at all, bringing him close and nuzzling the top of his head.

~

Five days is about the time Cedric feels content with staying in Vergen. Iorveth, unsurprisingly, notices it quite easily.

“You’re restless,” he says. “Time to move on, then?”

Cedric hums, gazing into the fire crackling in Iorveth’s little fireplace. It’s getting colder now, so really, were he smart, he would stay. At least until the passing of winter. But no, he is indeed restless. There is something to be found.

“I think so,” he replies. “But I must say goodbye to Ciaran, this time. Else I fear he will never forgive me.”

Iorveth wrinkles his nose, looking rather disgruntled. “And what of me, hm? Shall it be as sour a departure as last we said farewell?”

Cedric gives him a wry, sidelong look. “As I recall it, I said I would be leaving, explaining my reasons, and you told me to never return. That I expected you would react as you did does not change that it hurt me as much as my choice hurt you. But no, I hope our farewells may be kinder, this time. I should like to return and be welcomed.”

Iorveth’s expression softens. “I did not perhaps react as I should have,” he says grudgingly. “But know that you are welcome in Vergen, and welcome in my home. Always, Cedric. Always.”

Cedric smiles fondly, leaning over to press their cheeks gently together. “I know, and I treasure your welcome.”

Soft steps in the stairs herald Ciaran’s appearance, and they both look over to find him looking faintly sad, but mostly knowing.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Yes. Tomorrow,” Cedric answers. “I would spend the night with the two of you before I wander off.”

Ciaran nods firmly. “You had better. I won’t let you leave otherwise,” he declares. Iorveth snorts, looking dryly amused, and Cedric knows it is because he knows all too well how difficult it is to stop Cedric from doing whatever he wants. He’s a bit bothersome like that. But he has no intention of hurting Ciaran, nor Iorveth, so for now he’ll behave, and enjoy the time left with his two beloved friends.

It’s best to enjoy what is, after all, instead of yearning for what was, or what will be.


	3. Chapter 3

Cedric says his farewells to Iorveth and Ciaran early in the morning, and moves in the direction of the wind. West, this time. Courtesy of Iorveth, he now has a proper bedroll as well, though whether he’ll use it or not is up for debate. It might be nice once winter sets in for real, as freezing to death seems altogether inconvenient. He has bought a thicker padded jacket with that in mind as well, of dwarven make. It’s not quite as long as his former one, but has a high neck and sleeves, which makes up for it, even if he somewhat dislikes the way it restricts the movement of his arms. It isn’t much, but with his habit of wearing sleeveless things for the most part, it’s something new to get used to.

It feels better, being on the road. More right. Easier, too, with the lack of temptations fraying at his strength of will. He needs to get used to it, but… for now, it is still difficult, and he’ll rather stay away from the temptation than wait for failure.

He still stays away from the bigger roads, from normal paths for travel. Something tells him that’s for the better, and he doesn’t need prescience to tell that something is going to be changing now. Mostly amongst the dh’oine, but then, with how they seem to rule everything, it will undoubtedly have effects on the rest of them as well. Iorveth mentioned full chaos having happened at Loc Muinne, which certainly hasn’t helped.

Still, there’s nothing Cedric can do about it. He must simply be careful, remain cautious and alert. Also a good incentive to stay away from alcohol, that.

It quickly turns out the bedroll is a very useful gift. Unsurprising, when it is a gift from Iorveth. Cedric isn’t sure he likes how quickly the cold comes though. It seems the frost is coming early this year, and it may well make his wanderings more complicated than he prefers. He could always invest in a horse, he has some money left from what he was paid to protect Lobinden and Flotsam, but that also involves needing to care for said horse.

…Well. A companion? He speaks to himself as it is, those who know him wouldn’t bat an eye if he starts speaking to a horse.

With that in mind, he sets course for Vengerberg. Or rather, just outside the city. Seeing as the city itself was quite devastated only a few years ago by Nilfgaard and Scoia’tael, he doesn’t want to get too close. He may not be Scoia’tael anymore, but even just being an elf could be… something of a risk. A risk he isn’t interested in taking.

Luck is with him, however, and as he nears Vengerberg, he finds stables a bit outside the city itself, something of a little village on the way. He’s given more than enough sceptical looks, but it probably helps that he’s not openly carrying any weapons, having left his bow behind in the forest for now.

“What do you want, elf?” the dh’oine by the stables demands.

“I wondered if I could buy a horse from you,” Cedric answers. “I have coin with which to pay.”

The man squints at him suspiciously. “You’ll be wanting a fast one then, a real springer?”

“No, rather the opposite. A slow horse, one which won’t mind carrying a bit of weight. Needn’t be fast, nor young—I simply find myself in need of a companion content to move at the slow pace that I myself prefer to travel,” Cedric offers. That, it seems, makes the dh’oine a bit calmer.

“Well then,” he says, waving Cedric along. “Might have just the horse for your needs—given that you’ve got the money.”

The horse he proceeds to show Cedric is big. Big and powerful, brown, with white-feathered hooves. A draft horse, clearly, and of some age, but not too old.

“This one here is a slow one—won’t get him up in a gallop. Likes elves though, and can carry a load. ‘Bout middle-aged, should last you some years, given you don’t ride with ‘im in some squirrel attack or some such.”

Cedric smiles wanly. “Ah. I am not… a squirrel, as it were. I don’t like fighting much. But he seems to fit my needs, yes, so how much would you want for him? Does he have a name?”

The dh’oine eyes him for a long moment, clearly pondering how truthful he is, before nodding, and rattling off a price. Whether it’s reasonable or not for the horse, Cedric doesn’t know—what he does know is that he has just enough money for it, and so he hands it over without arguing.

“Right good,” the dh’oine says, clearly pleased. “He doesn’t listen to any name, so give ‘im one if you like—and he’s got a saddle, but also got some bags and a harness you can get too.”

And so Cedric has a horse. He names him ‘Treise’, to which the newly named Treise tosses his head and proceeds to almost push Cedric over by shoving him with his nose. Cedric bites back a smile, and thinks he’s going to enjoy travelling with the massive horse.

It  _ does  _ make travelling easier. Treise can carry a lot more than Cedric can, and does so without much complaint, seeming quite content to walk alongside Cedric. He could ride the horse as well, of course, it would make for more effective travel, but Cedric isn’t travelling to reach anything, and so he sees no need to hurry to some place he does not yet know. Not to mention, his side is still sore, and so he prefers to remain upright on his own legs instead of having to balance on a horse. It’s all the same.

~

He makes his way back to Temeria, and finds it bleak. But he also comes across someone vaguely familiar. Vaguely, because the she-elf, while Scoia’tael, is young and has operated elsewhere than the places Cedric has tended to be.

“Ceádmil, Vernossiel,” he says, lifting a hand in greeting to her and the commando she has with her, more than a few looking startled and hostile. They must be tired if they didn’t notice his approach, what with Treise’s size and the noise of his hooves on the hard dirt path. Vernossiel frowns, before her brows then smooth out, and she gives a terse nod.

“Cedric,” she says. “Right?”

“That is my name,” Cedric affirms. “Where are you headed, to seem so harried?”

Vernossiel’s lips twist. “North. Away from bloede Nilfgaard. Anything more than that, you don’t need to know—you’re not Scoia’tael anymore, as I heard it,” she says shortly.

Cedric hums, stroking Treise’s flank with a hand. “I am not,” he confirms. “But it does not mean I seek you harm. It simply wasn’t where I was meant to remain, and I was hardly helpful before I left either. A warrior stumbling around only causes damage to one’s own unit, that you realise.”

Vernossiel wrinkles her nose. “One could also call it cowardice,” she notes, though he hears on her tone that she isn’t truly accusing him of it. She is simply tired, a bit bitter, and she has every right to be.

“I may well be a coward,” Cedric muses. “But there is room for you to rest in Vergen, in Upper Aedirn. If you were to want it.”

“No,” Vernossiel says. And if that is her decision, then so be it. Her reasoning is her own, and Cedric has no right to tell her otherwise. He simply wished to make her aware that respite does exist.

“It’s getting late—remain with us for the night, share a meal with us,” Vernossiel offers. “In exchange that you help us keep watch. We’re all tired, and you’re not.”

Cedric nods in agreement, only a bit hesitant. Keep watch? Hm. “Of course. That’s more than reasonable.”

There’s a bit of rustling from the commando, a mix of curiosity and weariness, but only one speaks up, a male, a bit uneasy.

“Not to question your decision, Vernossiel, but…  _ why  _ isn’t he Scoia’tael anymore? Surely he can divulge that? I’m not saying I believe there to be foul play at hand, only… it’s not as if most Scoia’tael  _ retire _ .”

Vernossiel eyes the other elf, then gives Cedric a look and a raised brow. He sighs, rubbing the back of his head. Isn’t that the truth? Iorveth and his commando in Vergen might be considered retired now, but Cedric knows that should Iorveth mobilise for one cause or another, his commando will follow. In comparison, Cedric has no intention of doing any such thing for any reason. He will fight to defend himself, to defend those close to him, if necessary, but otherwise, he will not, he  _ can _ not.

“I am old. Older than most,” he says softly. “Gifted with abilities I cannot control, abilities that have gotten worse as I have aged. My first century, even my second, it was hardly a problem. Even as I rounded my third century, it hadn’t yet taken my control of my own life away from me. But these latest years… we lost  _ seven  _ of our commando because  _ I  _ was on watch, and I was trapped in my own head, unable to see the present. I couldn’t stay. What use is a Scoia’tael who cannot fight, who might any moment lose perception of the world around? I can help you keep watch now, because I nearly died just a few months ago, and it hasn’t been so bad since. But I cannot be the only one on watch. I don’t dare.”

“I’ll join you first part of the evening, Fionnlagh the second,” Vernossiel decides. “Put your horse with ours, then join us at the fire for now.”

Cedric inclines his head, and now, when he moves with Treise, the commando seems more accepting, the one who spoke up rising to his feet and showing him a space for Treise among their horses, head ducked just a bit.

“Squass’me, I didn’t mean to pull up poor memories for you,” he says. “I am Fionnlagh.”

Cedric shrugs one shoulder, removing Treise’s travelling gear without any hurry. “You are forgiven,” he says easily. “It’s good to meet you, Fionnlagh. Don’t worry that I take offence at what you may say—I very rarely do. There’s enough warring in the world as it is, I see no reason to make any more of it.”

Fionnlagh raises an eyebrow, jaw shifting a bit as if he’s uncertain what to say. Instead, he takes to helping Cedric brush down Treise. The horse sniffs, considering Fionnlagh, before shoving him with the nose. The elf blinks in surprise, and Cedric huffs a laugh, patting Treise on the rump.

“Treise likes you, it seems—and he wonders if you have any treats.”

Fionnlagh’s lips twitch, and he pulls up a treat from a pocket, offering it. Treise immediately accepts the offering, looking more than content, and Fionnlagh relaxes, returning to brushing him down.

“I don’t think I’ve met any elf older than three centuries, before,” he notes. “That means you were alive even during Aelirenn’s time?”

“I was,” Cedric affirms. “I didn’t get involved. For the best, I suppose, or I doubt I would be alive today.”

Fionnlagh frowns. “Why not? You were Scoia’tael now, for a while?”

Cedric smiles wryly. “So I was. But it’s not comparable. A fight for freedom, for rights, yes. But… no, I never could join her. She was a masterful speaker, Aelirenn, charismatic and noble. But she was young, brash. And in the end… you know the end of the story.”

“Everyone must seem young to you,” Fionnlagh comments. “It’s… frustrating, sometimes, to talk to older elves. So many seem to think they know better just because they are older, even though they too were young once.”

“We were all young once,” Cedric agrees. “Though sadly, there are so few left of the truly young elves. I haven’t seen a child in… oh, it has been so very long. Hmph, I must sound as old as I am, waxing on and on. I try not to be so condescending, but I fear I must seem so. I am rather opinionated, and have been told I talk too much.”

Fionnlagh offers half of a smile. “Old you may be, but it doesn’t mean you need be poor company. I’ll tell you if I think you talk too much,” he teases.

“You do that,” Cedric smiles. Treise gives a scoff and a nicker, interest in another of the horses awoken, and so Cedric lowers the brush and allows him to wander as far as his ties will let him. He glances at Fionnlagh again, who is eyeing Treise with a somewhat bemused expression, and makes a soft hum of amusement.

“Shall we join the others?”

Fionnlagh blinks, and smiles, this time properly. “Yes, let’s.”

~

Being on watch for Vernossiel’s commando is… uncomfortable, Cedric must admit. He feels awake and alert, keeping his gaze sweeping the area every now and then, but he can’t help but to feel as if he is being more a danger than an aid.

“You’re tense,” Vernossiel comments, eyes knowing, but not judging.

“I am,” he smiles mirthlessly. “You and I both know you would keep watch better without my presence.”

Vernossiel shrugs. “Perhaps. I think you’re being too scared of your own abilities. You must’ve been given them for a reason.”

Cedric hums, lips thinning. For a reason? Maybe so. He has yet to find said reason, has yet to find anything but trouble, but maybe that is because he is so troubled by it in the first place, so… frightened, truly, of the way it influences him. 

“Company makes a watch better, regardless—someone to talk to, to keep both awake,” Vernossiel points out wryly. “So there is some point to you.”

Cedric snorts. “You’re a rude one.”

“Keeps me alive,” Vernossiel retorts, but her lips twitch with some amusement.

A rustle draws Cedric’s attention, but it is only—somewhat ironically—a squirrel. He eyes the critter for a moment, then turns more of his attention back to Vernossiel. That being rude keeps her alive, he can believe. It’s not so much that she’s truly rude after all, so much as that she’s brusque and unapologetic. Good traits for a commander, given that she knows to temper it in some situations.

“Are there any other elves as old as you?” Vernossiel asks, tone more thoughtful, and Cedric tilts his head, considering that.

“I don’t know,” he answers. “There might well be, hidden somewhere or other. I’ve not met any, and those friends I had of similar age are long gone. The world is… not unkind, but with little mercy. As nature, the world is beautiful and terrible.”

“Less beautiful and more terrible,” Vernossiel replies. “And getting worse.”

Cedric smiles wanly. He has little to say to that.

“Do you think I’m too harsh?” Vernossiel asks. “You don’t agree with me, with the way I act, I think.”

Cedric shrugs. “I think you are as you feel you need to be. And perhaps I do not agree, but what would it matter, Vernossiel? Only you can decide who you wish to be, and you have lives and a cause resting on your shoulders, a heavy weight to bear for anyone,” he replies. “I may seem judging, but I assure you, I very much respect you.”

Vernossiel is silent for a moment, contemplative, and then nods. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Cedric replies, and they lapse into comfortable silence. The forest remains calm and asleep.

~

Watching the dawn makes Cedric tear up quite irrationally. Fionnlagh gives him a rather concerned look for it, but Cedric is too busy appreciating the beauty to say anything about it. He has seen many a sunrise, of course he has, but it has been long since last he was on watch, since the last disastrous time. To see the dawning of the day now, nothing having happened, it proves he is not inherently untrustworthy for such a task. Vernossiel’s commando is safe, slowly waking, and Cedric has not, for even a moment, disappeared into his own head. What a tremendous relief.

Fionnlagh offers him a handkerchief embroidered with flowers along the edge, smiling uncertainly, and Cedric takes it, gently drying away his tears. He smiles wryly at the younger elf.

“I’m overemotional on a good day,” he says. “But I assure you, there is nothing wrong.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Fionnlagh replies. “Wouldn’t like to think I said something wrong again.”

Cedric shakes his head, returning the handkerchief, and reaching up to gently run his hand over Fionnlagh’s short, light locks. It gets him a startled look, before the other elf then leans into the touch, eyes closing with contentment. So many of the Scoia’tael Cedric comes across seem to have forgotten that there is time for gentle touches, that there’s opportunity to show affection. Another thing sad with the cause they all fight for, this strange tendency to drop everything for it, to think fighting is all there is to life until they win, or until they die.

Cedric wrinkles his nose. No, he wishes to enjoy the dawn with Fionnlagh now, so such thoughts shall have to wait. They lead nowhere but in circles, regardless.

Once the camp starts to stir for real, they join in on preparations for the morning. Cedric helps another of the young elves, Mina, with preparing biscuits made of nuts and applesauce as quick energy together with dried meats and hardtack, while Fionnlagh quickly finds himself busy taking down tents with the others. In very little time at all, the entire camp is packed down, and everyone has either finished eating, or is finishing up, nibbling on the biscuits—one for each. Cedric savours his own, being very fond of both nuts and apples, and appreciating the energy it gives him as well. He’s tired.

“We must be on,” Vernossiel tells him. “You should find somewhere to sleep, seeing as you’ve been awake all night.”

Cedric nods in agreement. “I will. Thank you for the company, Vernossiel, and may Dana Méadbh watch over you in your endeavours. I hope to find you all in good health, should we meet again.”

“We’ll see,” Vernossiel replies grimly. “Va faill, Cedric.”

“Va faill, Vernossiel, evellienn. Va’en gar’ean.”

Vernossiel nods, Fionnlagh and Mina smile, and then they’re off, horses and elves disappearing into the trees. Cedric smiles sadly after them, hoping for the best, before turning to Treise who is packed and ready.

“Shall we, my friend? Deeper in the forests, I think, for some rest. Then, let’s see where our feet take us.”

Treise nickers softly, nosing at Cedric’s cheek. Cedric’s smile warms. He is glad not to be alone, for all that his companion is a horse.


	4. Chapter 4

The weather turns with the coming season, and everything suddenly becomes very, very  _ wet _ . It rains for days, and despite cloak and waxed leather, Cedric and Treise are both soaked in short time. It’s not even that the rain is particularly heavy, it is just constant. The braids on the sides of his face get outright uncomfortable, a constant wet presence, and the rest of his hair too lies heavily at his neck, until he grumbles and ties it all back in a short, messy tail. It’s just about long enough for that, now, only some few strands escaping at his neck. Maybe he should cut it again. Or let it grow. Either or.

With the weather being inhospitable however, and not seeming to let up anytime soon, Cedric ends up making more of a camp than he has in a while, taking the time to set up a lean-to of fallen trees he finds, big enough to give both him and massive Treise some reprieve from the falling water. He sets up some simple traps around the area, to stop monsters, to discourage dh’oine, to catch something or other, and builds a firepit for the making of food, and for drying. Practically everything he owns is wet, inside and out.

And the rain just won’t let up. Cedric likes being in the wild, but he must admit, even he misses the warmth of a home with four walls and a solid roof in this weather. At least Treise is warm though, and doesn’t mind Cedric leaning into him as they share space. If anything, the horse seems quite content with it. He does wonder as to Treise’s past, what has him liking elves and Cedric’s meandering when he seems to be mostly a draft horse, but he supposes he won’t get an answer to that so easily. Nor is it particularly important.

He gains a guest, however, and a very unexpected guest at that. He hears a ruckus from the direction of one of his traps, a simple snare, and upon investigating, finds nothing less than a person hanging in it by a foot, upside down and cursing. A very colourful person, and thus also very recognisable.

“A strange place to catch a bard,” Cedric comments, smiling slightly.

Dandelion the bard flails his arms to turn around, eyes wide, and then grins, looking mildly queasy. “Cedric! Why, I thought you were dead! That’s what Geralt mentioned, but it’s good to see that’s not the case. Let me down? Please?”

Cedric snorts softly, moving over to where the snare is fastened and loosening the knotwork carefully, allowing him to lower the bard gently to the ground rather than dropping him like a bag of rocks. He looks dishevelled enough as it is, which again begs the question of how the bard has ended up in the forest in the middle of nowhere. Without his witcher friend, either. Though, Geralt may well have gone to winter elsewhere, as witchers do.

“Thank you! Thank you, a lot. Didn’t fancy hanging around,” Dandelion declares, sitting up and rubbing his head. “But, uh, shouldn’t you be at Flotsam? Or Lobinden? Or even Vergen, for that matter?”

“Strangely enough, non-humans aren’t particularly welcome in Flotsam anymore,” Cedric says wryly. “And while Vergen is a fine city, it doesn’t suit me. But I am an elf, and I enjoy living in nature. More curious, I think, is your presence here. You seemed more inclined to… easier living, shall we call it?”

Dandelion squints at him. “What, were you spying on me?”

“Zoltan talks when he’s drunk,” Cedric replies idly. “He hadn’t few complaints about you. But so too was it clear he does enjoy your company, for all he pretends he does not. What are you doing out here, taedh?”

“Oh, it’s Dandelion, my pointy-eared friend, you might well use my name. And I am travelling, of course! Heading to Oxenfurt, then perhaps Novigrad. Only, I came across someone who rather wanted me ill, and so I moved on rather quickly to lose them! And now, my friend, I… am lost.”

Cedric shakes his head, exasperated. “Lost,” he repeats. “In this weather, too? You’ll end up ill.”

Dandelion grimaces. “Yes, well. Not much I can do about that right now.”

“Come then,” Cedric decides. “At my camp you might at least dry a little. If you decide to trust an elf in the middle of a forest, that is.”

Dandelion perks up, eyes brightening. “Oh, could I? You’re hardly a stranger, Cedric—I do believe we spoke  _ at least  _ once. And Zoltan likes you, as does Geralt, so I’m inclined to believe you’re a good man. A good elf.”

Cedric hums, turning and gesturing for the bard to follow. “A good elf,” he repeats ponderously. “What makes for a good elf, or a good man?”

“I’m too wet to ponder philosophy,” Dandelion replies. “But you are kind, and that matters.”

Cedric doesn’t quite know what to say to that. Kind? Maybe. When he can be. But in a world in which kindness is more liable to see you killed, does that make him a good character, or just a fool? He appreciates the compliment and the trust, regardless. It might be reckless of the bard to trust an elf he has barely spoken with and should know well enough to be a drunkard at that, but Cedric appreciates it. Even if he thinks Dandelion should exercise a bit more caution, in such troubled times as there are.

They reach the camp, and Dandelion fairly throws himself under the roof, to which Treise huffs with bewilderment. Cedric moves over to stroke a hand over his muzzle, smiling wryly.

“He’s dh’oine, Treise, you’ll have to forgive him the lack of elegance.”

Dandelion makes an outraged sound. “Lack of elegance? Me? You say to a  _ horse _ ?”

“Treise is very elegant,” Cedric replies, biting down on an entertained smile. “Get the worst of your wet clothes off, and you can borrow my cloak to keep warm if it’s too cold for you. It’s not entirely dry, but it’s wool.”

Dandelion wrinkles his nose, trying to wring water out of his hat. “I’m not sure taking my clothes  _ off  _ will make me any warmer. Of course, if you wanted me to strip naked for you, all you had to do was ask, dear Cedric,” he replies, a small smirk at the corner of his lips.

Cedric huffs with amusement. “I’m known to be quite promiscuous,” he says. “Or I was, before I ended up so drunk. But no, right now it would mostly be a shame if you caught your death by way of cold. Think of all the poor women-folk who will be deprived of any more lovely ballads of how blue their eyes, or how fair their skin.”

“Well pardon me, sometimes I sing of brown eyes or plump lips!” Dandelion sniffs. He starts stripping of his heavier, soaked outer layers though, shivering, and Cedric moves over from Treise to instead feed the fire, picking up Dandelion’s clothes to hang them up to dry. It’ll take a while, judging from the fabric. Not exactly clothes to be getting lost in the forest with either, but a bard will be a bard, he supposes.

He offers his cloak, and Dandelion takes it gratefully, tucking it around himself, and then giving an abrupt sneeze that startles Treise. The reproachful look he gives the bard makes Cedric huff a laugh. Dandelion sniffles though, looking somewhat miserable, and Cedric can’t resist giving him a gentle pat on the head. “You’ll heat up,” he assures the bard. “And Treise is warm as well, so lean up into him for extra warmth. He pretends to be grumpy, but he won’t mind you.”

“I’m not a child, you know. And what’s with people talking with their horses, anyway? Geralt does that too,” Dandelion comments. “And actually, why are  _ you  _ out here in nowhere, Cedric?”

“I know you’re not a child,” Cedric assures him. “I don’t mean to be condescending, for all I know I can seem it. It would appear to be a problem for most above a century old. But I am wandering. Seeing where my feet bring me, what people I will meet, what places I will pass through.”

Dandelion nods slowly, something contemplative in his eyes. “How old are you, really? You’re  _ old _ , that I know, but are we talking a hundred and fifty, or closer to two centuries?” he wonders. “How does one even live for so long?”

Cedric smiles wryly, sitting down under the lean-to and pulling a hand over his hair, pulling the moisture back from his face. “One lives, the years passing by, until one realises one is nearly three and a half centuries old,” he replies. It’s not something he can explain, really. Not to a dh’oine, even if said dh’oine is a poet. How can they understand something so far away from themselves? Of course, Cedric cannot understand them either, how they try to cram so much life into so little time. How they succeed. And how they fail.

“Wait, hold up now—you’re  _ three-hundred and fifty years old _ !?” Dandelion splutters.

“Somewhere around there,” Cedric affirms. “I am old even for an elf.”

“Can you believe this?” Dandelion asks Treise. Treise flicks an ear and snorts at him.

“Now who is talking to a horse?” Cedric says wryly. “Is it so mind-boggling? I am as any other elf, merely a bit older than most.”

Dandelion gives him an incredulous look. “Cedric, you were  _ alive  _ before  _ Elirena _ . Before that entire thing even happened! You must know so much, and yet you hardly look a day older than thirty, if even that! Elven vitality is really something. You should write memoirs. Surely you know so much of history that is lost to everyone else?” he says.

“I am an elf, Dandelion,” Cedric replies. “I might not mind dh’oine much, but I do not believe they would put any credence to the word of an elf. Particularly not the word of an elf known by many to be constantly drunk.”

“Well, you’re not drunk  _ now _ ,” Dandelion points out. “I could write your memoirs for you, use a pen name!”

“No,” Cedric says. “Are you hungry, do you have anything to eat with you?”

“I may have lost most of my supplies,” Dandelion pouts. “Are you absolutely sure about the memoirs? They could easily be written without implicating you at all, you know.”

Cedric gives Dandelion a pointed look. “No, Dandelion. If you want to know of something, I can tell you what I know of it, but I do not want it written down. It’s as simple as that. I have enough supplies to share some with you, however, so you shan’t starve.”

“Well, thank you,” Dandelion nods, a disappointed pout still on his lips, but a vaguely understanding look in his eyes. He may act a fool at times, but Cedric has seen such acts too many times to believe in them. Cheerful and babbling, yes, but it doesn’t say anything of intelligence. And Dandelion, Cedric thinks, is rather more intelligent than he wants people to know. If, also, genuinely foolish in some amount for travelling alone at this time, in this weather, and managing to lose his equipment.

“Are you mad at me now?”

Cedric blinks. “Mad? No. You are a poet. Wishing to put things down on paper is part of how you are; I simply don’t wish to partake. But you understand that. No, you are asking me something different, I think.”

Dandelion shrugs, bundling himself tighter into the woollen cloak. “Maybe, maybe not. Did you have something to eat? I’m starving.”

Cedric hums. There’s something he’s missing. But either Dandelion will tell him, or he will not. Meanwhile, he might as well feed the miserable poet, himself, and Treise, who is looking rather reproachful. Such an opinionated horse. But with an opinionated horse and an opinionated bard, Cedric supposes it’s easier to go with the flow of it all. He doesn’t mind one way or another.

~

It would seem those wishing Dandelion ill are invested enough in the task to track and follow him. Cedric is glad to have decided to do a small patrol around his camp, but not so glad about the brigands muttering to each other and laughing in an ugly manner. What is he to do? Kill them? A single arrow is enough. And yet, the thought of killing again makes his hands shake.

But he cannot let them pass. Dandelion cannot fight them, and practically strangers as they are not, Cedric will not let harm come to someone in his company if he can help it.

The question is, perhaps, whether these brigands take fright of Scoia’tael or not. For if they do, he might be able to scare them away. Dh’oine rarely see difference in an elf in the forest, whether with a squirrel tail pinned or not, and being at arrow point is usually a good argument to leave. Of course, if they don’t, he  _ will  _ have to kill them, or risk being killed himself, too.

One of the thugs exclaims, gesturing, and Cedric knows he has no more time to consider the situation. They’ve found Dandelion’s tracks, not a hard task by any measure.

A light step and a leap, the soft creak of wood, and he reveals himself up in a tree, bow drawn. He can’t quite draw a sneer on his face, but his solemn frown might work just fine.

“Leave, dh’oine,” he says.

Several of them jump, cursing in surprise. There’s five of them, altogether. Not many. But not few, either.

“Listen, elf, we don’t want no trouble!” the apparent leader says, a smarmy smile coming to his lips, hands raised placatingly. “In fact, we’re looking to take trouble off your hands! Seen a colourful human? A real elf-hater, that one, liable to slay many of your friends!”

Cedric’s frown deepens. “What makes you think any dh’oine moving further into the forest would be alive, now? Leave, or I will shoot you,” he warns. His hand shakes. He hopes they don’t notice.

“I didn’t sign up to be shot at by elves!” a thug protests. “Let’s just leave, ain’t as if the bard’s gonna survive.”

“Neither will the elf—shoot him!”

Cedric’s eyes widen, and he ducks down, hearing a crossbow bolt whistling above his head. There’re  _ six  _ of them, not five! What an amateur mistake, what foolishness!

He can’t spend time thinking now—they’re trying to kill him, and if they kill him, so too will they kill Dandelion once they find him. Sheyss.

He straightens, draws the bow back and releases the arrow without a breath of hesitation. One thug goes down with a silent scream, another readies a crossbow. The rest, yelling and shouting, go about trying to surround him. Tightening his lips, he leaps over into another tree, drawing a new arrow. It might be a while since he used arrows on people instead of animals, but in the end, it’s horribly simple to kill. The arrow leaves his string as he twists in the air, and another dh’oine falls.

He feels sick.

“Fucking squirrel!” the leader shouts. “Shoot him, damn it! Shoot him!”

Another crossbow bolt misses Cedric, but not by much, thudding heavily into a tree branch beside him. Cedric releases another arrow, kills the arbalist, whose choked scream reverberates through his skull. Three down. Three left.

“Screw this!” one of the brigands scream, abruptly turning on his foot to flee. His leader screams obscenities after him, and Cedric has to take a split second to decide whether to let him flee or to kill him. But in the end, it’s not only about his own safety, but that of another, and so the choice has already been made. The arrow impacts from the back, a clean kill.

“Why couldn’t you just have left?” Cedric demands. He sounds startlingly angry, but realises that he  _ is  _ angry. At the brigands, at himself, at this entire situation. Instead of waiting for an answer, he is swift and merciless in releasing two more arrows. One makes for an instant kill, the other impacts in a shoulder due to a hasty dodge, causing a wail of pain and fury.

The bandit makes to throw a dagger, and Cedric draws back one last arrow, releasing as he leaps down from the tree. He lands, a dull thump, and another body falls, impacts with the ground like a delayed echo. Silence falls.

Cedric eyes the corpses, knows he should retrieve the arrows, see if they’re salvageable. He has done so before. So many times. His hand clenches around his bow, his lips quivering, and then he’s crying, eyes squeezing shut. He couldn’t have done it differently. Surely he couldn’t. And yet… and yet he has killed. Again! Again and again and again!

He wails. Screams like a wounded animal. Why must it be like this?

When he opens his eyes, there’s blood on his hands. But there  _ isn’t _ , there’s nothing, his hands are clean, he  _ knows  _ they are. But the blood it climbs up as he watches, makes it look as if he has been elbow-deep in guts and gore. It’s just his head. It’s just his head, screwing with him. It must be. It always is.

His bow creaks in his grip, and he puts it on his back, tries to stop himself from trying to scratch at his blood-covered arms, at trying to wipe it off. There’s nothing there. His hands shake. Badly. The tears won’t stop running over his cheeks, his jaw aching from how he grits his teeth together. He’s angry, he’s sad, he’s so damned  _ upset _ . Can he never be free of it? Must it always come to kill or be killed? Is the world to be so primitive, so cruel?

He swipes ineffectively at his eyes, shuddering at the sensation of tacky blood smearing over his face, and turns on his foot. Perhaps it is cowardly of him, to flee the sight of the people he himself has murdered, but he has never claimed to not be a coward.

His sight is poor due to the tears, and the light dusting of rain there has been so far gets heavier, as if reflecting the turn his mood has taken. Still, his feet are swift and sure where they tread, and so it hardly takes him long to return to camp, to where Dandelion is scowling at the fire, to where Treise is grazing calmly. The latter looks up at once at his arrival, ears pricked forward as he neighs softly in greeting.

“Oh, Cedric!” Dandelion exclaims, looking up with the beginnings of a smile. It immediately falls, replaced by a concerned frown. “Cedric, are you—you’re crying. What’s wrong?”

Cedric shakes his head, moving over to Treise, to fold his arms around the thick neck, burying his face in the dark mane. His shoulders shake, and he muffles his soft sobs against Treise. The horse stoically remains, making a gentle noise that could almost be considered worried.

“Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?” Dandelion asks.

Cedric sniffs, pulling back just enough from Treise that his words may be heard. “The dh’oine who sought to harm you are dead,” he says. His tone is short, sharp almost, but softened by how hoarse he is.

“Oh, but that’s wonderful! Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Dandelion declares. 

“Hold your tongue,” Cedric says bitterly. “You are not the one who had to end their lives.”

“Oh. Oh, I… I suppose not, no. But really Cedric, if you hadn’t, think of how many more people they would’ve terrorised? People like that, there’s just no getting through to them, you know?” Dandelion offers.

Cedric grimaces, shaking his head and turning to look at the poet. “I understand you mean well, Dandelion, but enough. Whether justified or not, I took the lives of six people. Six! Six lives cut short at but a tenth of my own length of life. Am I to be  _ happy  _ about that? I have killed too many, I do not  _ wish  _ to kill, not ever, and yet it is so  _ damningly easy _ , do you understand?”

Dandelion winces and averts his eyes. “I am … I apologise. I didn’t mean to bring trouble your way, I swear.”

Cedric sighs. “I know, Dandelion.”

“Oh, but did you see if they had any of my—?”

Treise gives an irritated snort, tail lashing, and Dandelion cuts himself off. Cedric mostly feels tired and wrung out now though, and so just shakes his head, drawing a hand over his face. It still seems to be full of blood.

“You’ll find them some ten, fifteen minutes south,” he says wearily. “Go have a look. But don’t ask me to come with you, because I cannot stomach it.”

Dandelion nods rapidly, and without further ado pulls on his damp doublet and Cedric’s cloak, squinting at the weather before moving southward. Cedric considers telling him to bring Treise, but… he needs Treise’s company himself. And haplessness aside, Dandelion can run and hide as well as any other person, and he can shout for aid if he needs it.

Cedric just needs to calm himself down, needs his own head to stop showing him naught but blood.

When will it be enough, when will it be over? He doesn’t know.

~

Dandelion returns triumphantly with several of his belongings, and when the next day dawns, there’s finally a glimmer of sun through the trees. The light bounces off the droplets of water remaining throughout, and it’s beautiful enough to make Cedric smile, even though he feels outright poorly after a night of uneasy rest and undefinable dreams.

Dandelion also brought back his arrows. There’s blood on them, but clear signs it has been attempted washed away, and Cedric appreciates that. He appreciates that the bard has realised, understood, that Cedric wouldn’t have gone to fetch the arrows himself, and then took the time to get them. Appreciates the attempt at softening the uneasiness Cedric feels at the blood by attempting to wash it away. All but one of the arrows are in good enough shape to be reused. The last, he dismantles.

“I have a marvellous idea!” Dandelion declares once he has woken and eaten breakfast. “You’re wandering, I’m a bard all on his lonesome—why don’t we travel together? At least part of the way? Safety for me, and fantastic company for you.”

Cedric’s lip twitches with some tired amusement. “If you say so,” he replies.

“Hey now, I  _ am  _ good company,” Dandelion says in a jestingly admonishing tone. “But it’s up to you. Might prefer the company of that massive horse of yours, I shan’t judge.”

“I wouldn’t mind travelling together,” Cedric clarifies. “But for all that you might be good company, I probably won’t be, for a while. I am… I think too much, See too much, and I let things affect me too much.”

Dandelion hums, eyeing him for a moment, and then smiling. “Well, I’ll just have to see about cheering you up then, won’t I?”

Cedric gives an amused huff at that, shaking his head and moving over to Treise, to prepare him for travel. Whether Dandelion succeeds or not, he hasn’t a doubt the poet will try his very best to create cheer. And perhaps that’s what Cedric needs, right now, something to take his mind off what happened, his choices, his actions. He must consider them sometime, but… not now.

He’s always running away from his problems. Never seems to help, but he hasn’t found a better way of it yet either. Maybe eventually.

“So is it settled then? We’ll travel as a roguish pair on the dusty road?”

Cedric smiles, looking over to the expectant Dandelion. “Yes, Dandelion, we will. Though, ‘roguish’ is probably not the correct description.”

Dandelion beams, practically leaping to his feet. “Oh, it will be, dear Cedric. It will be!”

~

Travelling with Dandelion is somewhat an exercise in patience, but also quite amusing. Admittedly, Treise isn’t overly impressed by the constant singing, but Cedric thinks it quite nice. It reminds him a lot of better times, back when being an elf meant a certain carelessness, a freedom to play and frolic, rather than meaning dark forests and a treacherous arrow. When he and others would sing joyfully simply because they could.

Though, he thinks Dandelion sings much better than Cedric has ever done. It’s clear the bard knows what he’s doing, and though Cedric thinks his own voice is fine enough, it doesn’t have the trained timbre Dandelion does. Perhaps it would if he  _ does  _ train, but…

“You should sing with me! Elves like music, right?”

He gives Dandelion an amused look. “Liking music is not the same as being good at performing it,” he points out. “Though I enjoy singing, that is true. I simply don’t know your songs.”

“Well, maybe I know some of yours! Elven songs, I mean. Or translated ones, possibly. Or you could teach me?” Dandelion asks brightly. Everything about him is bright now. His clothes, his mood, his voice. Even his eyes sparkle bright blue, giving him a boyish charm for all that Cedric is fairly certain the man is in fact nearing the middle of his life.

“Have you heard the song Suo Gân?” he asks. “’Tis a lullaby, and one I find to be very beautiful indeed.”

Dandelion blinks, and quickly rummages in his satchel for something to write with and on. “I have not, I think! Please, do give me an example of it.”

Cedric makes a soft noise of amusement, then hums softly to start the tune, singing it low, not quite a murmur, but soft and gentle and warm. “ _ Huna blentyn ar fy mynwes, Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon…” _

He sings only the first verse, to start with, as the example Dandelion asks for. Dandelion smiles, surprisingly softly. “That song means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” he asks.

“It was sung to me by my mother, and I, again, sung it for my child,” Cedric admits. “So yes, I do have a certain fondness for it.”

Dandelion blinks, surprised. “You have a child? But you have no wife or—whatever the elven equivalent might be? Although, I mean, you’re really old, so I guess…”

Cedric smiles wryly. “I don’t have a ‘wife’, no. Iorveth was my lover for a long time, but that too has ended since. But as I mentioned to you before, I have in fact been known to be quite promiscuous, in my past. Not to say I’ve been dishonest to any lovers, going behind their back, but I have simply always enjoyed sharing pleasure with people I like, of any gender. And so with one, I have a child, Ceri. She is long grown and with a child of her own, mind.”

“Where does one even begin to unpack that?” Dandelion questions. “ _ Iorveth _ , really? And wait, you have a  _ grandchild? _ ”

“I do. They’re very sweet. As to Iorveth, why so surprised?” Cedric replies. “You travelled with Gwynbleidd, and therefore also Iorveth. You must know he is a many-faceted elf, that he feels deeply, for all that he presents a front of a commander who is strong and unyielding. Iorveth is driven and determined, but he feels very much, Dandelion. You shouldn’t doubt that.”

Dandelion holds his hands up placatingly, looking a bit silly while still clutching onto parchment and quill. “No, no, I know there’s many sides to him and all. Just find the idea of you two- actually, it’s not that strange at all. You’re both somehow earthbound and yet bigger than life.”

Cedric blinks slowly. “…Bigger than life? Me? You jest.”

Dandelion gives him a look. “Perhaps not the right wording, but you are hardly just any elf, Cedric. There’s just something  _ more _ to you. Maybe that kindness of yours, maybe it’s the weight of three centuries of life experience, but you’re something special. You and Iorveth both.”

That said, Dandelion turns his attention to his parchment, quickly holding it up to Treise’s side to easier write, ignoring the horse’s huff and lash of tail. Cedric tilts his head, not quite sure what to say. But maybe he doesn’t need to say anything at all. Maybe he should simply accept what Dandelion says. He hardly thinks himself in any way special, but, well. A compliment is a compliment.

“Anyway, would you continue singing that lullaby? I’m thinking I could definitely learn that,” Dandelion notes brightly.

Cedric smiles, and starts singing again. Treise just about rolls his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

They end up travelling together all the way until they reach Oxenfurt, which Cedric is mildly surprised about. It hasn’t been without win, however, as Dandelion has been amusing and surprisingly considerate company, and the bard has enjoyed Cedric’s skill with a bow and traps for food and to frighten away undesirables.

Luckily, whatever manner of undesirables they have met, a warning has been enough. He hasn’t needed to kill.

He has very little interest in going to Oxenfurt proper, however, and so parts ways with Dandelion when the city is within view, despite insistent invites from Dandelion to join him as a guest at the university. He means well, and believes good of people, but Cedric has learnt to be wary. A lesson learnt much too late, at that.

For now, however, he ends up following the river westward. It’s getting colder, so what he should do is find some sort of shelter, perhaps some place he can stay over the coldest part of the winter, but something tells him that he must keep moving for a bit more Somewhere. There’s something to find somewhere. A challenge, amusement, despair? Whatever it is, he must find it. His head is never going to let his feet rest otherwise.

As it is, Treise is the one who notices something new this time, suddenly stamping and neighing in clear upset. Cedric draws his bow at once, alert, and quickly notices what has Treise so uneasy. Monsters.

Monsters attacking someone, in fact, and Cedric tightens his lips and releases Treise’s reins, full focus instead on his archery. Treise, not one to be particularly frightened, runs straight  _ at  _ the offending monsters—ghouls, seems like—and scatters them, making it much easier for Cedric to pick them off with what silver-tipped arrows he has. He cannot fight such things close up, so he must be quick about it, and hope whomever has been attacked has managed to defend themselves and not yet been grievously harmed.

Still, for ghouls to attack something  _ living _ … that’s very concerning. There must be a mass of dead nearby.

The ghouls fall to the silver-tipped arrows, and Cedric is swift in moving over, gaze sweeping the area for any motion from the dead ghouls, or any others that might show up.

“Oh,  _ thank  _ you, I was certain to have been eaten if you hadn’t come along!”

Cedric smiles, slightly surprised, but nonetheless pleased, to find the stranger is in fact an elf. A pretty one, with fair skin and dark hair, looking quite relieved.

“I am Elihal,” the stranger offers. “A tailor. As thanks for saving my life, won’t you come along to my workshop, and I can create for you something fine to wear? ‘Tis on the outskirts of Novigrad, not very far.”

Cedric makes a sound of amusement, before whistling for Treise to come over. “Am I not finely enough dressed, is that the case?” he asks. “Come, Treise can carry us both, and we should get out of ghoul territory sooner rather than later, or both end up eaten. And in the interest of not seeming a stranger out to steal you away, I’m Cedric.”

Elihal laughs, and Cedric winks at him, climbing up on Treise and offering a hand to pull the other elf up as well.

“Well met, Cedric,” Elihal says, settling behind him and not hesitating to fold his arms around Cedric’s waist. Clearly not shy, which makes Cedric smile, even as he prompts Treise into a quick canter, wanting to get to safer roads.

“So what brings you here?” Elihal questions. “With the armour and all, one could take you for Scoia’tael, but you seem rather gentler in nature.”

Cedric hums. “I was, for a little while. But it doesn’t suit me much, no. For now, I… wander. There is something I must seek, though I don’t know what, yet. I’ll come to know soon enough, I’m sure,” he muses.

“Oh?” Elihal wonders. “Something you must seek? Well, if that’s the case then. Tell me, how old are you, Cedric? Something in the way you speak makes me think you’re rather a bit older than I.”

“Three-hundred and forty-seven. So yes, I am probably quite a bit older than you,” Cedric answers. He suspects Elihal hasn’t even reached one century yet, but what does that matter? He seems a lively and sweet elf, and to be a tailor, too, certainly indicates a stubbornness in choosing to make a living of something creative, something enjoyable.

“My, that is indeed a bit older than I!” Elihal agrees. “But you seem much less liable to admonish a young elf for youthful foolishness than most older elves I’ve met.”

Cedric snorts. “We were all young once, and I’ve done my share of foolishness. No, what need have I to admonish the youth for living as they wish? I may well speak up in the case of foolishness of more dangerous nature, but otherwise, I am simply glad to see people enjoying the life they have,” he dismisses. What business is it of his, anyway?

Elihal falls silent for a moment, clearly contemplative, before speaking up again. “Well, Cedric, how would you like to try a dress? Because you really do fit the exact sort of model I’ve been looking for.”

There’s a very mild trepidation to Elihal’s voice, something hidden under the joviality. Perhaps he has had a negative response before?

“I would love to,” Cedric answers. It’ll be interesting to see how he might look in a dress, how it might feel. Especially if created by a tailor, something made to fit, to feel and look wonderful. “Would you be wanting me to still seem male as I am, or to look more as a she-elf? I do believe you’d need some tricks and makeups for the latter.”

Elihal’s arms tighten slightly around his waist. “I do have such makeups. If you would like to try,” he says, cautiously excited. “It’s quite—it’s freeing, you see? With clothes, with costumes, you can be anything and anyone!”

“That sounds fun,” Cedric says warmly. “I’m at your disposal, so let’s see what you can make of me, hm?”

“Oh thank you,” Elihal says. “Thank you, Cedric, that means a lot.”

Cedric smiles, and pats Treise on the shoulder absently. “You’re very welcome.”

~

Elihal’s workshop does indeed lie on the outskirts of Novigrad, the city clearly bustling with life already from a distance. The workshop itself lies more comfortably silent, and though small, seems to be plenty space for Elihal, who dashes back and forth with elegant steps to show his wares. Cedric admires the work unabashedly, studying the stitchwork and the clear care put into it. Himself he can sew simple things, but it’s readily evident that Elihal truly knows his trade well.

“It is perhaps too late to dress up now, after a long day… do you have anywhere to stay, or would you like to stay here? The place might not be big, but there’s enough space for two,” Elihal offers.

Cedric nods. “If you have the space, I would be grateful. It’s getting cold nowadays.”

“Oh yes, winter is arriving quickly now. Going to be many dead, I think, all the dh’oine armies trying to kill each other and dying of cold and hunger and, I don’t know, dysentery or something,” Elihal shakes his head. Cedric’s answering smile is somewhat bleak.

“There will be many dead. There already are,” he murmurs. “Such unnecessary fighting.”

Elihal blinks thoughtfully. “But you were Scoia’tael, you said,” he notes. “So you must’ve agreed with them, at some point? Fought for their cause of freedom and belonging?”

Cedric grimaces slightly. “I was. But I… no, I’m a bit too jaded, I think. The Scoia’tael are so very idealistic, even as they are, as they must be, ruthless. Perhaps I am idealistic in my own way, attempting at pacifism of all things, but truth be told, I joined more for one person than for the many. In the end, my presence ended up detrimental to my commando, and so I left.”

“I’m sad to hear that,” Elihal says softly. “Come, come, I have something light to eat, and then you can settle your bedroll at the floor by my bed. Ah, your Treise, how will he do outside?”

“He’ll be fine—there’s a bit of cover, and plenty of grass for him,” Cedric assures. “Thank you, Elihal.”

Elihal smiles, and goes about finding food, while Cedric indeed places his bedroll as indicated. Their evening is short, all told. Cedric is weary from travelling, Elihal weary from the shock of being attacked by ghouls, and so it’s nice to lie down, close the eyes, and simply fall asleep.

He wakes feeling rested, sitting up and rubbing grit out of his eyes. Elihal, it seems, is already preparing for the day, bustling about and throwing a casual greeting on his way.

Cedric, knowing better than to get in the way of people’s routines, dresses and goes outside to check on Treise. As surmised, the horse is contentedly grazing, flicking an ear and looking up once Cedric appears. Cedric picking up a brush has the massive horse trotting over eagerly, and Cedric smiles fondly.

He takes his time in brushing over Treise, humming and murmuring under his breath as he works. Treise makes several contented noises, and remains calm and still even as Cedric brushes out his mane and ends up doing basket braiding on it all.

“It seems you spend more time on the appearance of your horse than your own.”

Cedric ties off Treise’s braids, smiling at Elihal. “I think Treise cares more than I do, too.”

Elihal shakes his head, though he is smiling. “A crime, Cedric. You’re a good-looking elf, you should show that off with more than drab armour!”

“The drab armour has helped keep me alive,” Cedric notes with amusement. “But as I said yesterday, I am at your disposal, Elihal. Dress me up as you like—it has been far too long since I had time or ability to do such things.”

Elihal nods, giving him a critical once-over. “We shall see what we can make of you. But first, breakfast! Come eat with me, and then we shall see what clothes suit you best.”

Cedric looks to Treise, who looks back at him and snorts. He laughs, patting him on the shoulder, and leaves him to wander and graze as he will. That probably interests the horse more than fashion does. Cedric, however, finds himself smiling as he follows Elihal back into the workshop, to the small table where some food has been readied. It will be nice to try something new just because he can.

Most of the day goes by on that, in fact. Elihal does also have customers coming by, but whenever it is silent, he goes about trying all manner of clothing on Cedric. Northern styles, southern styles, Skelligan, elven, loose, and tightly fitted. For comfort, Cedric prefers the looser clothes. He can’t deny that he somewhat enjoys how he appears in the tighter clothing, however, how well it follows the lines of his body. Elihal certainly knows how to accentuate and show off traits that already exist, such as Cedric’s slim waist.

Once evening comes, however, Elihal closes down his workshop for customers, and sets to the project he has clearly been wanting to do: Getting Cedric in a dress. He has a vast array of styles for that too. Cedric allows the young tailor to move him back and forth, testing out the variety, but even so, Elihal looks mildly frustrated, a slight furrow between his brows.

“What’s the matter?” Cedric asks, idly shifting to make the long skirts on his current dress flare. Inconvenient wear for the forest, but the swish of fabric around his legs is wonderful.

Elihal sighs, one hand at his hip. “You do look beautiful in, well, all of these. But none of them strike me as  _ you _ ,” he explains. “I cannot put my finger on it…”

Cedric hums, adjusting his sleeve. “Perhaps, Elihal, it is that these fine dresses do make me seem far more modest than I am,” he offers. They have all so far covered most of his skin, after all, which is not usually something he does if he has a choice.

“Oh! Maybe something bolder, yes!” Elihal agrees, all excitement again. Cedric laughs, and changes into the new garment given, standing still so Elihal can tug a bit here and pinch a bit of fabric there. This dress has no sleeves, with the front open by a bit down to the middle of his torso, and Cedric likes how it fits nicely down to his waist, where it then flares out into long skirts perfect for swishing about. Perhaps it’s silly of him to enjoy it so much, but he sees no harm in it.

“Give me a twirl?” Elihal requests, and Cedric does as told, grinning with delight at the way the skirts lift as they flare out.

“Oh yes, that’s much better! If you’ll take it off, I shall adjust it so it sits better to the body, and then- well, if you want, perhaps a bit of makeup, do something with your hair?” Elihal ponders.

“Whatever you want. I’m having fun,” Cedric shrugs, taking the dress off and handing it back to Elihal, watching the swift and precise work the tailor does to adjust the dress. “If you want to try to make me look female, I wouldn’t mind that either. Though, it may take a fair bit of makeup, since I’m not quite as neutrally featured as you.”

Elihal makes an amused sound, not looking away from his work. “Not so much as you might think,” he replies. “Take a seat over there, please, and I’ll find the makeups as soon as I’m done with this.”

Cedric inclines his head, moving over to sit and leaning his head on his hand patiently. Will he make a pretty she-elf? Well, with how figure-hugging the dress is to the torso, something would have to be done with his chest being flat, perhaps. Or maybe a bit of makeup is all that is needed to create an illusion there too? Elihal is the expert, so he’ll wait and see.

Makeup feels strange, Cedric finds once Elihal starts applying it to his face. It’s not extremely notable, but he still notices it, feels the faint layer of powder being brushed onto his face. Might well be something one gets used to, but not something he’d want to use all the time, he thinks.

“What do you think?” Elihal asks once finished, holding up a mirror. Cedric’s eyes widen. He looks… well, for one thing, beautiful. His eyes seem bigger, tired bags minimised, and his cheekbones are emphasised, his jawline somehow a bit different. He looks like himself, only… more? A bit more feminine, just enough to possibly, hopefully, make people question whether he’s a feminine male or a masculine female. Or neither, both, perhaps. Still unquestionably Cedric, but beautiful in a way he has never considered he could be.

“This is… astonishing,” he says. “I look wonderful.”

Elihal smiles brightly. “You do look fantastic. Let’s get you back in the dress now, I’ll dress up myself, and then… perhaps a trip out?”

“I would like that,” Cedric agrees. Looking so pretty, with both the makeup and the fantastic dress, it would be a shame to hide it.

Elihal is much quicker in dressing and putting on makeup, of course, and so Cedric doesn’t have to wait very long. Not that he would’ve minded one way or another, too pleased with making his skirts swish again. But Elihal, upon presentation, has managed to make himself almost otherworldly beautiful. And all of it only by enhancing the features he already has.

“I should mention… that is… it’s she, right now,” Elihal says.

“Of course,” Cedric smiles. “I shall remember.”

Elihal nods, the faintest hint of uncertainty still in her face, and Cedric gentles his smile. “You look absolutely stunning, Elihal. A charming she-elf by all accounts. So now, let us show ourselves off and have a fun evening. Agreed?”

Elihal brushes a hand through her artistically done hair, more at ease, and nods. “Agreed!”

~

Being out while dressed so prettily is a lot of fun. Cedric is still a bit wary of the people around them, but Elihal effortlessly leads him to places not too crowded, and it’s fun and somehow affirming to notice the eyes following them. He knows himself he is looking beautiful, but to have that confirmed gives him a strange confidence. From the knowing, pleased smile on Elihal’s lips, she’s well aware of it.

In a stream of strangers, however, there is also a familiar face.

“Excuse me, I just need to pass— _ Cedric _ ?”

Cedric smiles, tilting his head. “Ceádmil, Triss,” he greets. “It’s good to see you are well.”

Triss stares at him, lips parted with shock, before she then looks him over entirely, looking somehow even more confused. “I… why are you dressed like-? No, never mind, you’re very pretty, but—I thought you were dead! I never should’ve asked you to help me, I’m so sorry Cedric.”

Cedric shakes his head, taking Triss’ hand in his own. “It was my choice to help you,” he reminds her gently. “And, in the end, I am not dead.”

Triss’ lower lip wobbles. “Can I—would you mind if I hugged you?” she asks. Cedric huffs softly, and draws her into a careful embrace, easy to break out of, but still warm and comforting. She smells lovely, still.

“Such sadness, for an elf you barely even know,” he murmurs.

“With what I do know, how could I not be sad at the idea of your death?” Triss replies, tucking her head in the crook of his neck. “You were so kind and helpful, and I repaid that by letting you be stabbed by Letho.”

Cedric snorts. “There wasn’t much ‘letting’,” he says wryly. “It’s naught but a scar now, regardless.”

“But how did you survive? There was so much blood…”

Cedric wrinkles his nose, pulling his hand gently through her lovely chestnut hair. “That, I do not know. Nor am I particularly interested in the details of it,” he admits. “It took me some time to be in good enough shape to go anywhere.”

Triss sighs, hugging him tighter. “Well, I’m glad. Though… why the dress? And the makeup?”

“Why not? Can I not dress up and relish in my own beauty? Is it to be confined to only females?” Cedric replies, genuinely curious. He likes how he looks, likes how it feels, does it matter so much?

Triss hums thoughtfully, but before she can answer, Elihal makes her way over, looking curious and a bit concerned.

“Who’s your… friend, Cedric?” she asks.

“Elihal, this is Triss Merigold,” Cedric answers, smiling with a considering gaze. “She tends to smell nice, and enjoys some fine clothes every now and then, I think. Triss, meet Elihal. She’s a wonderfully skilled tailor.”

Triss makes an amused sound. “Again with my scent, Cedric? It’s true though, I do like some fine clothes. You’re a tailor, Elihal? Did you make these beautiful dresses, then?”

Elihal blinks, biting down on a smile. “I did. Do you like them? With your complexion, and that wonderful hair- well, if you have time someday, you should come by my workshop on the outskirts of the city, see if we can’t find something that might suit you,” she offers.

“I would like that,” Triss agrees. She reluctantly pulls back from the embrace, giving Cedric a small, but very genuine smile. “I really do have to go now, but—if you’re in the area, maybe we can talk, have some tea? I still… I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“That sounds nice,” Cedric muses. “I’m not overly inclined to be in the city on my own, but come by Elihal’s workshop, and you’ll likely find me in the area there for a while.”

Triss nods, smile widening. “I’ll find you. Nice to meet you as well, Elihal, I look forward to seeing more of your creations. Have a good evening, both of you,” she implores. Then, with swift steps, she’s gone.

Elihal hums, one hand on her hip. “Smells nice?” she repeats, a bit amused. “How oddly specific. Where do you know her from?”

Cedric chuckles. “I met her in Flotsam, over at the border between Temeria and upper Aedirn. A sorceress, that one. Sweet, a bit manipulative, but kind when it matters. Nosy, though,” he notes wryly.

“Mm… she seemed concerned for your health. Does that have to do with that scar on your side? It seemed recent, I noticed. No more than a few months old, at most,” Elihal comments, brows furrowing. Another person concerned for his health all at once, Cedric supposes. But he doesn’t mind it.

“I was protecting her when I was wounded,” he explains. “Well, if it can be called protecting. I had barely lifted my arm before I was lying on the floor bleeding out.”

Elihal gasps. “No!”

“Yes,” Cedric replies dryly. “I fainted, and woke to a town in chaos, Triss gone, kidnapped, and the unerring knowledge I was bleeding too much, too quickly. Made my way into the forest to die there, and I… I did, I think.”

He still doesn’t quite know what to think of that. The warmth, the light… fevered imaginings? Or was there truly something to it? He shakes his head, shivers.

“Well, I’m alive now, in any case. However it happened.”

Elihal hesitates, then draws him into an embrace. “I’m very glad of that, Cedric. Very, very glad,” she says softly.

“As am I, Elihal,” Cedric agrees. “As am I.”

~

Triss shows up early the next morning by Elihal’s workshop, as Cedric is taking care of Treise. The horse gives her a pointed, sceptical look, and she pauses, looking intimidated no less.

“Treise is kind, haven’t a worry,” Cedric assures her, pulling the brush firmly over Treise’s coat. “Just opinionated.”

“An opinionated horse with hooves the size of my head,” Triss remarks. “Did you have him back in Flotsam? I can’t imagine there would be much use for such a big horse there, nor much space.”

Cedric shakes his head. “No, I found him on my travels now, sought a companion. I don’t deal well with loneliness, but neither do I deal too well with too many people. Silly, isn’t it?” he asks. “I love people, love seeing and taking part in their lives, but they make me so tired.”

“I don’t know that it’s so silly. You can love someone, but it still takes energy to be around people, doesn’t it? Even the ones you love,” Triss replies. Her voice is contemplative, and when he glances over, her brows are furrowed. She doesn’t seem unhappy though, simply considering.

He hums, smiling faintly. “That is true,” he says. “But so too is it tiring to love someone who cannot remember whether they love you or not… or, indeed, that they might well love another. Hm?”

Triss purses her lips, giving him a mildly reproachful look. “There’s no need to be rude, Cedric.”

He snorts. “Is that what you think? That I am being rude? Perhaps. I speak my mind too plainly at times. But you won’t have much luck shaming me for it, dear. I might be mild-mannered, but I was once told trying to control me is like attempting to herd cats. A very frustrating endeavour.”

“Well I certainly don’t want to control you,” Triss negates. “I just… it’s rather a sore topic.”

“By the choices you made yourself,” Cedric says knowingly. “People don’t appreciate being lied to, Triss, even if it is meant well. But you are not a child, and I shan’t rebuke you like one. You wanted to speak with me? About something in particular, or did you merely wish company?”

Triss sighs, folding her arms. “More the latter. But take your time with your horse, I don’t have any haste. Need to move some things later, to my home, but that I can do when it suits me.”

Cedric tilts his head contemplatively.  _ More  _ the latter, she says. So there is something. Well then, now he’s curious. But he’s just about finished with Treise regardless, and so he gives a few more strokes with the brush, and gives the horse an oatmeal biscuit. Treise chuffs contentedly, nudging him with his shoulder to ask for more, and Cedric laughs when it pushes him back. He’s spoiling the dear thing, but he gives him another biscuit.

“It’s good to see you laugh,” Triss comments softly. “You seem happier now.”

“I suppose I am,” Cedric replies, putting away the brush and waving Treise off to graze as he likes. “Times are dark, but… hm. I don’t know. I am seeking. Once I find that which I seek, who can tell if I will stay or wander off? Indeed, who can tell the future? It’ll come upon us regardless. You mentioned tea, yesterday?”

Triss nods. “There’s this little hole in the wall near the Bits—very nice tea, and they don’t bat an eye at pointed ears. If you’d like to have a cup?”

“Lead the way, then,” Cedric agrees. “Mind, I don’t have much in the way of money.”

“I’ll pay,” Triss says without hesitation. “I’m the one inviting you out, after all.”

Cedric bows his head. “Thank you.”

They are not bothered on the way. Mostly, Cedric thinks, because Triss gives a sharp look to anyone who seems even mildly inclined to comment on his presence. Otherwise though, the city guard seems busy enough as it is, running around and shouting at each other, toting crates, and a variety of other things. Preparing for the inevitability of the war coming to their gates, presumably.

The ‘hole in the wall’ really is very small, but quite cosy, the proprietor ushering Triss and Cedric to a little table with only the two chairs. At most, there might be space for some ten people, but they are the only ones.

“Two cups of tea please, lemon and… something floral, I think, sweet. And some biscuits,” Triss says. With a nod, the somewhat diminutive proprietor moves off.

“Floral and sweet, hm?” Cedric says, amused.

“It seems like something you’d like,” Triss replies, quirking a brow challengingly. “I noticed when I saw you drinking, you certainly weren’t drinking that vodka for the taste.”

Cedric’s small smile sharpens. Still touchy about the comment on lies, it would seem, but that’s fine. “No, I was drinking it to be dead drunk,” he says blandly. “Vodka tastes too sharp, unpleasantly so, but what does it matter? It’s cheap. While the dh’oine at Flotsam astonishingly enough did pay me for keeping monsters away, it wasn’t much. Nor do I need much, for that matter, but alcohol is an expensive habit.”

“Avoiding problems don’t make them go away,” Triss muses.

“I think we both know that,” Cedric says wryly.

She sniffs, giving him a grudging smile, before a quick, lighter smile to the proprietor as the tea and biscuits arrives. The floral tea does smell nice, Cedric admits, and he takes a sip, finding it pleasant on the tongue.

“I’m used to telling other people to cut the bullshit, not so used to being called out on my own,” Triss comments, dunking a biscuit in her own tea and nibbling on it. “Truce?”

“We’ll see,” Cedric replies. “The tea is nice, thank you. You are, indeed, right in that I enjoy sweet things. So now, you  _ mostly  _ wanted company, which I take to mean there is something else as well?”

Triss hums, chewing on her biscuit with a slight frown. Cedric takes one as well, waiting patiently for an answer. The tea and the biscuit go very well together.

“I’m… worried,” Triss finally says, slowly. “About the mages. Because Radovid… after what happened at Loc Muinne…”

“I cannot aid you with worry, Triss, nor with magic,” Cedric says gently. “I am, more than anything, a simple hunter. Some may consider me wise, others find me quite frankly irritating, but regardless, I can make traps, I can wield a bow and a blade, and that is all.”

“I just need advice, I think,” Triss replies. “Because you know how it is to be hunted, don’t you? You may not be Scoia’tael anymore, but you were. And even before that, you’re old, right? For all I know, you were one of the elves caught up in Aelirenn’s sphere…”

Cedric smiles wanly, taking a long sip of tea. “I was already a century and a half by the time of Aelirenn’s Uprising,” he answers. “And I have never been much for conflict, even as a youth. But yes, I do know how it feels to be hunted, as most Aen Seidhe.”

Triss stares at him for a moment. “That’s… older than I expected. But, well, in this situation, what would you advise? I’ve heard rumours of witch hunters, not to mention that the Church of the Eternal Fire… I don’t really know what to do. Should I just keep my head down, keep out of trouble? Let my people fend for themselves, and hope everyone gets out alright? Should I help the others, how should I help them? How  _ can  _ I help them?”

Cedric hums, leaning his head on his hand. “A dilemma, certainly. And not one easy to solve. I am the kind to keep my head down, myself. Though… it depends entirely on the situation. If those I care for are in trouble, I will always set their wellbeing ahead of my own. Perhaps a good thing, perhaps a bad thing, perhaps it is simply neutral. The point I am trying to make, I think, is that you must decide what is important to you. Your own life? Your way of living? An entire society? I cannot bear the weight of all Aen Seidhe. Nor can you bear the weight of all mages.”

“But if I wish to help… how can I do that, Cedric?” Triss asks.

He chews on his lip for a moment. How can she help? He doesn’t truly know. It’s all depending on the actual situation. But there is one thing he knows.

“Get contacts. Get information,” he says. “The one most informed will always be the one with the upper hand. With your sorceress politics and such, you should know that. Every situation is different, when hatred comes into the picture. But once you  _ know _ , you can decide what to do. What ifs help no one.”

She nods, sips at her tea. “…Yes, you’re right of course. Thank you. It helps to have someone to speak with, instead of having it all swirling around in my head.”

That makes him smile wearily, taking another biscuit. “How familiar that sounds.”

Triss pauses, eyeing him for a moment. Then she reaches out to pat him gently on the arm. “Is it bad? Your head? You… don’t seem to be drunk, after all, and… there was a reason you did.”

He shrugs. “It hasn’t been quite so terrible since I almost died, asides… there were bandits, brigands. Alone, I would’ve simply left, but I was travelling with Dandelion, and they were seeking him. Again, and again, I keep killing people. For others, never for myself, but I’m not so sure that makes it any better. There’s so much blood, Triss.”

Triss takes his hand, clasping it between her own. “There will always  _ be _ blood, Cedric. But if you spilt blood so that Dandelion’s blood wasn’t spilt, isn’t that worth it? It’s as you say, we can’t care for everyone. So we do our best to care for those we are close to, and that sometimes means we must make difficult choices,” she says intently. “Please don’t blame yourself for that.”

“I will try,” Cedric sighs. He squeezes her hand gently in gratitude, appreciating the words, for all that he already knows them. The problem lies in that his emotional and intellectual understanding does not  _ agree _ with each other, seems at times completely disconnected. But he must try. All he can do is try.

“Good,” Triss says, and that’s that.


	6. Chapter 6

He sees Triss again a couple of times, helps her carry some things to her home, and finds an odd sort of enjoyment in the somewhat sharp banter they share. Elihal meanwhile appreciates using Cedric as a model for their clothes, and is otherwise a wonderful conversational partner, knowing a bit of this and that, and being genuinely invested in whatever Cedric feels like telling.

Still, eventually he feels like moving on again. And so he does, saying farewell to his two friends, packing up, and letting Treise choose their direction. Treise chooses to go north, to the other side of the river shore, and then south-east. Back towards Oxenfurt.

That seems strangely right, and Cedric wonders what has changed. Is what he seeks moving, or was it simply not right, before?

They trek on, in any case, at a calm and tempered pace. It’s becoming properly chilly now, but Cedric has his thick cloak, and a thick blanket for Treise as well, so they do well enough. He leaves his hair down in his neck, long as it has become, and refrains from braiding the hair he leaves in front of his ears, leaving it free to warm his ears instead. He should perhaps invest in a hat of some sort, and some gloves, but… later.

Then there’s snow. Not much, but it’s windy as well, the snow flying about and making visibility near impossible. Cedric walks near Treise, the massive horse a wall against the snowdrift, but when even Treise shows signs of growing tired, it’s clear that they must find shelter.

Cedric’s sight flickers, he sees blue, before again there is only snow. Well now. What does  _ that _ mean?

Treise nickers, shoving him gently with a shoulder, and he realises the horse has found something. Someplace. A cave entrance, it looks like, dark against the white of the snow. A welcome sight, but… is it safe? Every living creature knows caves are shelter, after all, and there aren’t all of them that are as inclined to share as others.

But the wind somehow blows up even more, and Cedric sees no other choice. Cautiously, he moves to the entrance, and straightens. There are lights, further inside. Lights, meaning… people. But what kind? Bandits, farmers, elves, dh’oine?

He shivers, cold. Treise huffs, blanket and pelt soaked in melted snow, and Cedric decides he might as well simply find out.

“Greetings!” he calls inside. “Might there be shelter from the storm, for a lone elf and a horse?”

There’s a sudden hush, then a murmur, before there’s one voice rising above the din, irritated and tired. And  _ familiar _ .

“There might, if the lone elf keeps his fingers  _ off  _ any weapon!”

Cedric blinks, surprised, and curious. Vernon Roche. Commander of the Blue Stripes of Temeria. In  _ Redania _ ? Suddenly, he feels no need to go anywhere at all, seek naught else. Now he’s intrigued.

He enters the cave, still a bit cautious despite his curiosity, and Treise walks calmly beside him, until they reach the light, reach a big group of dh’oine huddled around several firepits. Blue and white, many of them. Temerian forces then. And many squinting suspiciously at him. His attention, however, is drawn to the somewhat short man in blue, a dark chaperon on his head.

Vernon Roche scowls at him, brown eyes ringed with tired circles, and cheeks gaunt under uneven stubble. Then his brows furrow, and a glint of recognition enters his eyes.

“You’re that elf from Lobinden, aren’t you?” he says. “The drunk one.”

Cedric smiles tightly. “That would be me. Though rather less drunk now. Still not certain I like being sober. Ceádmil, commander Roche. I am Cedric,” he offers with a nod in greeting.

Roche stares at him for a long moment, seeming puzzled more than anything. Then he grunts, gesturing off to the side, where there are some horses. “Space for the horse over there. Though what the hell you need a  _ draft  _ horse for…”

Cedric hums, gently directing Treise around the dh’oine soldiers looking at them. “I sought a dependable companion, so why  _ not  _ a draft horse? I have no need for speed, I am simply wandering,” he replies.

“Sure you don’t need a faster horse to squirrel away with?” someone questions sarcastically, and Cedric shrugs, getting the blanket and bags off Treise to brush over him.

“I’m not Scoia’tael,” he answers blandly.

“You’d best not be,” Roche grumbles. Rather a subdued reaction, compared to what Cedric glimpsed of him before. But then, with how thin he is, with how thin they all are, huddled together, some seeming to favour limbs or sides… they’re tired. Exhausted, even.

“…What’s happened?” he wonders. “Why are you in Redania?”

Roche gives a bitter bark of a laugh. “Because  _ Nilfgaard  _ is in  _ Temeria _ , the sons of bitches. The fuck do you care, elf? You have shelter, because frankly I don’t feel like having some frozen elf corpse lying around outside, but don’t think I won’t kick you out if you’re a bother.”

Cedric tilts his head, not feeling particularly threatened by that. So Nilfgaard has taken over Temeria? Or defeated the Temerian forces, presumably, which is why the rest of them are now… apparently trying to survive in a cave. He should perhaps have kept his ears more open, but then, he has mostly been travelling in forests, so that might be how he has managed to avoid any warring.

“I don’t really understand why countries have so much meaning to you,” he muses. “It’s just land. Aren’t the people what’s important?”

“What would you understand?” Roche bites. “You elves are practically all homeless.”

Cedric gives him a slanted look. “Yes,” he agrees. “We are. I wonder why. Wonder upon whose ruins so many dh’oine have built their palaces. Wonder at this futile fight Aelirenn gathered the young for, this futile fight the Scoia’tael wage. I wonder.”

Roche’s jaw sets, but he averts his eyes, glares down at the floor instead.

“You shouldn’t have picked fights with humans!” one of the soldiers declares, and Cedric sighs, shakes his head.

“We are not the ones who picked fights,” he says tiredly. “But your memories are short, and mine is too long. A discussion would only come to fruitless arguing, and I don’t wish to argue.”

“How about we talk instead?” a new voice speaks up, and Cedric looks over to see a blonde woman moving over. Ves, if he recalls right. Roche’s lieutenant.

“Why did you leave Lobinden?” she asks, settling on a rickety chair. “Thought you had a job there and everything.”

Cedric blinks slowly, but no one seems to protest the change of topic, and so he merely shrugs, putting aside Treise’s brush and hanging his wet blanket on a convenient piece of rock jutting out of the cave wall.

“…The kingslayer found me to be an obstacle,” he admits, unceremoniously stripping of his padded jacket, wet as it is. “I very nearly bled to death. When I… came to, all I knew was what I was told; that there had been riots, pogroms, Scoia’tael through town, and an unmatched chaos. It would hardly have been smart of me to return. No doubt I’d have been branded Scoia’tael simply because I am an elf, never mind that I’d not seen Iorveth in a long time.”

Ves arches a brow. “So you  _ know  _ Iorveth, but you’re not Scoia’tael?” she asks sceptically. Roche, too, looks up at that, eyes calculating.

Cedric snorts, hanging up his padded jacket as well, and folding his woollen cloak around himself. His sleeveless undershirt isn’t particularly warm. “The Scoia’tael has barely existed for a decade,” he points out. “And Iorveth and I are rather a bit older than that.”

Roche grunts. “So you knew him before, then. Before he turned into a fucking menace.”

Cedric gives him a reproachful look. “Iorveth has always done what he thinks is right. That we don’t agree on how he goes about it doesn’t change that I understand why he chose as he did. I’d prefer if you didn’t insult him to my ears, regardless.”

Roche blinks at him, expression… not quite angry, but not happy. “You do realise I don’t give a fuck about your  _ opinion _ , elf?”

“I have a name,” Cedric replies evenly. “Or should I instead simply call you by ‘dh’oine’, Roche? Is that what you want? That we keep perpetuating this useless alienation of each other’s race?”

Roche scowls again. Ves smirks though, looking considering, her eyes sharp.

“You’re a philosophising kind of elf aren’t you, Cedric?” she asks.

“He’s an  _ annoying _ kind of elf,” Roche mutters.

Cedric shakes his head, somewhere between exasperated and amused. “You’re just a bundle of joy, Roche,” he says wryly. “But yes, I do have a tendency to… talk in circles, think too much, the like. Comes with getting old, I suppose. Though I’ve certainly always talked in circles.”

“You don’t  _ look  _ old,” Ves comments. “Why is that, anyway? Haven’t really had a chance to ask about that, what with, well.”

“Hm. We may look somewhat alike, but we are different beings. We are built differently, function differently,” Cedric muses. “But I’m cold. May I join you closer to the fire, or would you rather I not?”

There’s some grumbling, but then Roche makes a small gesture with his hand, and the soldiers make space. Surprising. But appreciated. Cedric inclines his head in gratitude, carefully finding his way to a seat near the fire, holding his hands out toward it. His nails are purple. He really should invest in some gloves.

Silence reigns for a little while, somewhat uncertain, before the soldiers slowly but surely start muttering with each other, start having their conversations without much care for the elf in their midst. Everyone but Roche, that is, whose gaze keeps returning to Cedric whenever he thinks Cedric isn’t looking his way. There’s something ponderous in that gaze, mixed unease and irritation and even a glimpse of curiosity.

Well, Cedric is curious too. But he’s patient when he wants to be. He can wait and see.

~

Cedric sleeps next to Treise, arms folded, back leaning into the warm horse. For all that he wishes he could say otherwise, he doesn’t quite trust the dh’oine soldiers, after all. But enough to dare sleeping.

He is woken by a hand at his shoulder, and blinks his eyes open to find Ves smiling slightly at him, eyebrow raised.

“Sleep well?” she asks. “Almost can’t believe you were comfortable enough to sleep in a cave full of human soldiers. Especially considering several of us being Blue Stripes and all.”

Cedric hums, rubbing his face with a hand, and noting that his hair is an absolute mess around his face. How charming he must look.

“I slept surprisingly well for indeed being in a cave full of people who might or might not want to murder me,” he replies blithely, and Ves snorts, stepping back as he stretches and climbs to his feet. A bit sore in the neck, but that’s what he gets for sleeping while sitting up against a horse.

“Got anything to eat, or would you like some?” Ves asks. “Not for nothing, mind—we’re struggling with supplies as it is. But the way I figure it, you’re a hunter, right? So we give you breakfast, you can help me haul in something for the next meal or two.”

Cedric eyes her for a moment, then nods, brushing his hair out of his face. “Reasonable. Is there still snow?”

“Thin layer on the ground. Cold outside too—and that jacket of yours is still wet, so you should probably borrow something so as not to freeze to death,” Ves notes, gesturing him to follow before raising her volume. “Roche! Need something warm for Cedric! He’ll be going hunting with me.”

“The fuck he will!” Roche protests, sitting at something of a desk with some papers and a half-full bowl. “Shelter from the  _ storm _ —well there’s no ploughing storm anymore, he can fuck off.”

Cedric bites back an amused smile. “You do realise I am a better hunter than your entire company, Roche?” he says. “If you need food, it’s foolishness to shoo me away.”

“And so  _ modest _ too,” Roche grumbles, giving him a half-hearted glare. “I send Ves on alone with you, what’s to say she’ll come back, huh?”

“For one, she is by far more capable than me,” Cedric says wryly. “So if anyone risks not coming back alive, that would be me. Luckily, your lieutenant doesn’t yet seem inclined to murder me, which I’m quite happy about.”

Ves snickers. “No, I like you so far. You’re good for getting some more life into Roche, he’s been down for way too long without any elves to yell at.”

Roche growls, dragging a hand over his face. “What do I care for  _ elves _ now?” he demands. “There are more important things at stake.”

Cedric tilts his head. “Whatever cause you are fighting for, whomever your opponents are, you won’t help anyone by burning out, Roche,” he notes. “You look like you haven’t slept for a week—nor shaved, for that matter. You’re covered in bristles.”

Roche squints at him. “…It’s  _ stubble _ . Not bristles. What am I, an animal?”

“I don’t think you want me to answer that,” Cedric replies. “Go wash and sleep, Vernon.”

Roche gives him a blank look, almost startled. “…The fuck are you calling me by that name for?”

“It  _ is _ your name, no?” Cedric points out. “But really, do take care of yourself. Ves and I will go hunt once I’ve eaten, and then you can try to chase me away again later, when you’ve more energy.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Ves bursts out laughing.

Cedric smirks, pleased.

~

In the end, Ves gets her way, and Cedric is allowed to borrow some spare clothing and armour. Cedric also gets his way, in that Roche—very grudgingly—decides to actually get some sleep.

Once breakfast has been consumed, then, it’s out into the cold morning. The air is crisp, damp clouds being created from the air they breathe, and the thin layer of snow on the ground has covered everything in a blanket of white. The wind must’ve settled at some point, because the snow also covers branches of trees, bushes, every surface it could possibly cover. It’s positively idyllic.

“Urgh, why does it have to be so cold?” Ves complains.

“I think it would help if you tied up your blouse and closed the jacket,” Cedric says dryly.

Ves sniffs. “Someone whose undershirt gapes that much has no rights to complain about  _ my  _ gaping shirt.”

Cedric snorts, shaking his head. “Ves, you could walk shirtless and I would not think much on it one way or another. You’re a very attractive young woman, and it’s your body, so do what you wish with it, and dress as you like. But it is  _ winter _ , and it is  _ cold _ . There is stubbornness, and there is foolishness. You are not a fool, so don’t pretend to be one.”

Ves gives him a look. “You wouldn’t care if I walked shirtless? And then saying I’m attractive?” she asks sceptically.

“Again, it’s your body. Were you shirtless, it would draw my eye, certainly, but it’s still not my business, is it?” Cedric says. “My eye is drawn just as much to a shirtless male. It is simply so that it is somehow acceptable to society then. I don’t much understand it, but I’m not much part of society as it is, either.”

Ves hums, and starts tying up her blouse. “You don’t much prefer one thing over another then, huh?”

“I like  _ people _ , I think. Female, male, something in-between or neither, that doesn’t matter much to me,” Cedric shrugs. What does that matter, in the end? He can appreciate a beautiful body easily, but a fun personality is even better. And sometimes, he grows intrigued by other things. Settings, situations, people changing, or perhaps showing other sides of themselves.

He notes uneven snow, and lopes over to check it out, smiling when he recognises the tracks of deer. At least three, probably closer to five, though they’ve stepped in each other’s tracks, as they tend to do in snow.

“Over here, Ves.”

“Coming, coming,” Ves agrees, tying her jacket closed and tightening her scarf. “Deer? How many, do you think?”

“Three to five. But we can only carry two, unless we return to fetch horses,” Cedric replies. “Judging from the tracks, they passed by not too long ago. Shall we follow?”

“Let’s.”

Ves leaves the tracking to Cedric, which he is perfectly content with. He enjoys it, really, for all that it is remarkably easy in snow. It’s a task to focus on, something that has always put all other concerns to wait.

They find the little flock of deer near the river, and there are indeed five of them. Calm, headed for the river for some water to drink, and unhurried. It’s still relatively early, silent, so that likely contributes to their ease. All the better for Cedric and Ves. He draws his bow, nocking an arrow, and glances at Ves to find her readying her own. A bow instead of a crossbow, and though he suspects she’s more used to the crossbow, there’s nothing to say on her handling of the bow.

“The two on the left,” he murmurs. “They’re slightly closer to us. I’ll take the one to the right.”

Ves nods, aiming for the leftmost deer.

“Now.”

Two arrows fly, and two deer fall. The other three scurry away with alarmed cries, soon disappearing back into the forest, and Cedric lowers his bow, pleased.

“Well shot,” he says.

“Coming from an elf, that’s no little compliment. Thanks,” Ves smiles. “Should we gut them here, do you think, or would it be better elsewhere? It’s rather in the open.”

Cedric shakes his head. “We should gut them nearer to your base. You’re low on supplies, and there’s more use in a deer than just meat to fill hungry bellies,” he points out. “The pelt is of use, the guts, bones, hooves—you can use every part of the animal. It just takes a bit of patience, and you will be well rewarded for it.”

Ves raises her eyebrows. “Well—you’d know better than me, I suppose. Means they’ll be heavier to carry though.”

“Are we in a hurry?” Cedric replies. “Otherwise, we might as well simply use the time needed for bringing them back. I’m sure Roche will wake up once he catches my scent, ready to yell at me for one thing or another, so delaying our return shouldn’t be a problem as such.”

Ves tries to stifle a snicker, shaking her head as they move over towards the deer. “He doesn’t quite know what to make of you,” she says. “Too used to angry elves. Or Iorveth. Though that might go under one and the same.”

Cedric rolls his eyes, hefting one deer over his shoulder. “Iorveth isn’t so angry as you think him. He is simply determined. If frustrated with Roche at times, certainly.”

Ves lifts the other deer, rolling her shoulders, and turns to head back. “Uh-huh. How well do you know Iorveth, anyhow? You knew him before he was Scoia’tael, but I noticed you said nothing else about it. And with not wanting to hear him being insulted either, I guess you might’ve been close.”

Cedric’s lips twitch. “You could certainly call it close. We were lovers for decades,” he answers.

Ves blinks, and then makes a small hum of contemplation. “Makes sense then. Why not anymore? He’s alright, isn’t he? Heard something about Vergen and all.”

Cedric makes a soft noise of amusement. “He’s alive, yes, I saw him not so long ago. Visited him in Vergen. But the way we parted, last time, the words we exchanged then… our time is over. I love him, will always love him, but it cannot be as it was. And I needed to find something that I didn’t know what was. Still don’t, really, but now I’m intrigued.”

“To find something?” Ves queries. “And what’s that something that you don’t know, but apparently know enough to be intrigued?”

Cedric laughs. “Why, that’s the question, isn’t it? My wandering led me here, and I am not inclined to wander onwards yet. Roche shall simply have to deal with it.”

Ves bites back a grin. “Oh, you’re  _ staying _ , are you? Wait with telling him that ‘till I’m in the room, will you? I want to see the reaction to  _ that _ . It’s going to be fantastic. And you know what, I’ll vouch for you. You abuse that, and I’ll shoot you with my crossbow.”

“Fair enough,” Cedric agrees.

~

The soldiers are more than happy to see the two deer, and even Roche looks somewhat mollified, if dishevelled from throwing himself from bed. Cedric elects to bother him when he’s a bit more put-together, and instead goes about gutting and flaying the deer together with Ves. She’s a deft hand with a knife as well, to no surprise.

As it is, turns out Roche feels like approaching him of his own volition. Cedric ignores him, trying not to smile as he instead instructs Ves on how to remove the guts without damaging them.

“…You sure seem mighty comfortable, elf,” the commander says suspiciously. Then a moment of silence, before he grudgingly amends; “Cedric.”

Cedric looks to him, smiling innocently. “Ves is enjoyable company,” he replies. “Did you sleep well?”

Roche folds his arms, glaring at him. “What business is it of yours? Fuck off already, go squirrelling in the forest.”

“Again, I am not Scoia’tael,” Cedric says mildly. “And I don’t feel like fucking off.”

“What the _hell_?” Roche exclaims. “What could you _possibly_ want to stay in a damp cave with human soldiers for? Try to make some goddamned sense, will you?”

Cedric snorts, turning his attention back to the deer, and to Ves, who seems highly amused, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. She’s charming, really. Dangerous, he is aware, very capable, and undoubtedly with a lot of blood on her hands, but still, somehow, she is charming. Perhaps it’s her vivid personality, her open emotions.

“He’s my new boyfriend, Roche, we’re planning to elope,” she declares, and Roche outright splutters in confused protest. Cedric laughs delightedly, shaking his head.

“Marriage and eloping are such dh’oine things. With how inconsiderate you are to my culture and my habits Ves, I must break off this relationship—it isn’t fair to either of us to be tied irreversibly in a union that would only create resentment,” he replies, tone appropriately dramatic.

“No!” Ves protests, gasping. “We can make this work, Cedric! What will I do without you? Am I to end a spinster, forever lamenting the loss of her elven lover?”

“ _ Well _ ,” Cedric muses. “Don’t have to be married to release tension together.”

Ves makes a thoughtful face. “You  _ do  _ seem the kind to be a mindful lover, don’t you? Perhaps there’s still a way to salvage this.”

“ _ Absolutely not,”  _ Roche interjects. “What the ploughing hell are you  _ on _ ?”

“Amusement,” Cedric replies, smirking. “Not for that—you’re a lovely woman, Ves. And quite humorous, at that. You could learn from your lieutenant, Roche. There’s no harm in a bit of jesting, in lightening the mood.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re _still_ _here_ ,” Roche retorts. He looks more confused than angry, and irritated because of it, and Cedric hums, tilting his head.

“Quite simply? Because I am curious,” he answers.

“Why? About what? Shouldn’t you be furious about dead elves? Furious that  _ I’ve killed  _ so many elves?” Roche demands.

That makes Cedric pause for a moment, and he considers the words, brows furrowing. “It’s… not as simple as that,” he says slowly. “My hands are not free of blood either, for all that I wish they were. I don’t like it. I don’t approve of it. But the more important question, I think, is whether you intend to kill more elves.”

Roche scowls, and refuses to meet Cedric’s eyes. “What do I care about elves now?” he mutters. “They were—you were… no, there is no excuse. A reason is not an excuse, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”

“We all make choices, in our lives. Those choices will always impact on other people. But the question is what you choose to do once you realise that much,” Cedric says.

“What do you want me to do;  _ apologise _ ?” Roche snaps. “‘Sorry for trying to exterminate your race, I’ve seen the error of my ways’?”

“I want you to  _ think _ ,” Cedric replies calmly. “You are not unintelligent, and contrary to rumours I’ve heard, you are not a mere attack dog. Realise that. Realise that you are a person, Vernon Roche, and as a person you must make your own choices, and live with those.”

Roche is silent for a moment, lips tight. Then he grunts. “You’re infuriating,” he grumbles, and abruptly walks away, stomping more than anything.

Cedric blinks, looking after him with bemusement.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ves says, a bit more subdued, more thoughtful. “He’s had a lot of time to think, the last months. Had some revelations. You’re… pretty interesting to talk to, Cedric. Do you know that? Asides playing along with me, I mean.”

Cedric hums, turning his attention back to the deer. “So it would seem.”

How intriguing.

~

While the soldiers are wary of him, Cedric finds that they don’t truly seem to mind him so much. Probably helped by being useful with his hunting skills, but more so, he suspects it is because of how easily Ves has taken to him, jesting and questioning. Had Roche seriously chased him away, it would be something else, but the man has not, in fact, done any such thing, only grumbling and glaring. Trying to  _ shoo  _ him away, if anything.

But as he said to Triss; herding him is much like herding cats. He has absolutely no intention of being herded anywhere at all. Nor shooed.

Treise absolutely demands going out for some grass, of course, and is quite miffed to find there is snow in the way when Cedric brings him outside. Indeed, he gives Cedric a baleful look, and Cedric snorts, shaking his head and crouching down to brush snow away with a hand to reveal the grass beneath.

“Better?” he asks wryly.

Treise scoffs at him, and bends his head down to nibble at the strands of grass.

“Are you  _ talking  _ to your  _ horse _ ?”

Cedric smiles, turning to face Roche, who seems about as grumpy as ever, but with a thoughtful furrow in his brow. Treise flicks his tail dismissively at the commander, and Cedric huffs a laugh at that too.

“Why not? He’s a clever horse,” he replies. “And otherwise, perhaps I am simply lonely. Can I help you?”

Roche taps his fingers on his arm, pensive. “I still don’t know what you’re doing, hanging around. Curious about  _ what _ ?” he asks. “You never answered, only went on and on about thinking and choices and whatnot.”

“Curious about many things,” Cedric answers idly. “You’re different now, from how you were in Flotsam. From how you were in the years preceding it. It is true I am not Scoia’tael. But I was, at one point. I saw the devastation the Blue Stripes caused. That you caused. Just as I saw what havoc we created. But the man I saw then, he is not the one I see now.”

“I’m the same damn soldier,” Roche refutes. “Just fucking exhausted. Almost surprised you were actually Scoia’tael at some point though, what with being so… chatty.”

Cedric raises an eyebrow. “I have been called verbose at times, yes. Does that somehow make me less of an archer? Iorveth too is clever with his words, even if he never did speak quite so much as I do. He prefers quality to quantity, one could say. But one could hardly claim him any less dangerous just because he has clever wordplays, or enjoys playing the flute. Hm?”

Roche scowls. “I get your damned point. How well do you know him, anyway? Sure sounds as if you’re closer than ‘acquaintances’.”

“We are friends, now,” Cedric answers easily. “But were lovers for decades.”

That gives Roche pause, it seems, his eyes widening in surprise, before he frowns, eyes almost… troubled. What a curious reaction. Cedric hums, and moves over to brush away more snow for Treise, content with letting Roche have the time he needs to think on whatever makes him so bothered.

“Elves don’t… mind that, then?”

Cedric blinks, somehow a bit surprised despite himself. He looks to Roche again, tilting his head. “Why would we?” he wonders.

“Well, because — because that’s the way it  _ is _ ,” Roche says, tone sharp, but eyes closer to confused, lost even. “And you elves hardly ever get kids in the first place, either, so that  _ must _ be…”

“We’re only fertile when young, Roche,” Cedric points out. “And I am very old. I already have a child, a grandchild too. But even if I didn’t, what does it bother anyone whether I prefer males or females? Love can be felt for anyone. Sex can be enjoyable with anyone. I don’t rightly understand why anyone should mind it.”

“It’s not right,” Roche protests, but the words are wooden. Recited. Cedric shakes his head, rising to his feet. Not right? What nonsense.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “If it isn’t right, then it must surely feel like so, yes? So how about a little bet? We share a kiss, and if it truly feels to be ‘not right’, then I shall finally leave you be. But if it feels just fine, then I will be right, no?”

“W-What?” Roche splutters. “Have you completely lost your mind!?”

“I did that long ago,” Cedric responds breezily. “How about it? If  _ you _ ’re right, you don’t have to deal with me any longer.”

Roche stares at him, too many emotions passing through his eyes to catch, before it turns into a firm determination edged by scepticism. “ _ Fine _ . I’ll be sure to remind you of those words once you’re proven wrong.”

Cedric huffs a breath through his nose, closes the distance, and gently presses their lips together. Roche is tense, lips tight, and his stubble is an unusual but intriguing sensation against Cedric’s skin. He brings a hand up to cup Roche’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheek, and coaxes the man to relax before deepening the kiss, still gentle, but firmer now. And with a soft sound, a breath, Roche finally responds. The sound he makes when Cedric licks into his mouth, the way he grabs Cedric’s shirt in a vice grip, there is something close to desperation in it.

Eventually they need air, however, and Cedric pulls back with a last, careful nip at Roche’s lower lip, a small smile on his own. Roche stares at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed, and closes his eyes.

“Fuck,” he says.

“I take it  _ I’m  _ right,” Cedric says mildly.

Roche works his jaw, unclasps his hand from Cedric’s shirt, and promptly turns on his heel, saying absolutely nothing. Cedric watches him go, one hand on his hip, and then perks his ears when Roche stops just before disappearing back towards the cave.

“…That you may be right doesn’t change anything.”

Cedric sighs, shaking his head. He’s smiling though, and Treise nudges him with his nose, one ear flicking.

“Intriguing,” Cedric tells him. “I think we’ll stay here for a while. Help Roche screw his head on right. Not to mention spend some more time with Ves. I think you’ll like her, Treise. And don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing that mare in there, either.”

Treise scoffs, shoving him with a shoulder, and gives him an imperious look. Cedric laughs.

“No, I won’t brush more snow for you—you’ve hooves, you big thing. Now come on, there are things to do, if we want the dh’oine to nominally accept us. Then we’ll see where we end up from there.”

There’s still war on the horizon, after all. A war all these people are very involved in, which Cedric has absolutely no intention of getting tangled up in. But for now, he has found something fascinating, and so he might as well stay and discover more of it. Who knows? With enough thoughtful conversation, maybe one day Roche will be able to hold his head high simply because he is comfortable in himself, instead of hiding behind being a commander.

A project it is. How exciting. 


End file.
